Lawyer Trap - By R. J. Jagger Page 0,3

it up and twisted it around in his hand as the arid Colorado topography shot by. To the left a river snaked through the land. Hundreds of ugly cottonwoods—nothing more than 50-foot weeds, in his opinion—sucked up to it.

A hint of yellow had already snuck into the leaves. Fall was coming. Lucky for him, he’d be in California before the first snow fell.

This most recent hunt was going to be a little tricky. He was searching for an Hispanic woman, nice-looking, under thirty, heavily tattooed. Tons of tattoos, that was the most important thing. The more goddamn tattoos, the better.

That would be a tall task in Denver.

But in Pueblo, not so much.

There was more Hispanic pussy down there than the law allowed. Not to mention a biker bar on every street corner—tattoo magnets.

He rolled his six-three, 225-pound frame into the blue-collar town mid-afternoon and checked into a sleazy rat-in-the-closet hotel, paying cash—the kind of place where no one noticed anything and remembered even less. He tried to take a short nap, but some hooker in the next room kept screaming fake orgasms. So he drove around to check out the tattoo shops, just in case the perfect woman happened to be hanging around one of them. He’d hit the biker bars tonight.

He drove by three tattoo shops, saw nothing but guys, and kept going. Then he found a shop with two women inside, one of them working on the other. He stopped across the street, wrote down the license plate numbers of the two cars in front of the shop, and then pulled in and killed the engine.

Rap music filled the air.

When he walked in, the woman giving the tattoo looked up.

“Hi, I’m Mia,” she said. “Go ahead and look around. If you got any questions just holler.”

She fit the bill, perfectly—Hispanic, mid-twenties, with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a tank top with no bra, showing off strong arms covered in ink. The woman getting the tattoo would work too, although she would be second choice. She was getting the new artwork on her left breast, a small rose or flower of some sort.

“Just looking,” he said.

“Besides the stuff on the walls,” she said, “there’s books on the desk, too. We can make anything any size you want. We can change the colors, customize them however you want.”

“Great,” he said.

Pattern pictures covered the walls, hundreds of them.

He walked around.

Keeping one eye on the women.

Trying to not be obvious.

Then something weird happened.

He spotted a pattern he actually liked.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing.

Mia stopped working and turned her cute little face toward him. “That’s an Indian war symbol,” she said.

He didn’t even hesitate.

“I want it.”

She nodded. “That’ll look good on you. I’ll be about another half hour here, then you’re up.”

Perfect.

“Say, would you mind if I watched, and see how you do it? I’ve never had one of these things before.”

The two women looked at each other.

Neither cared.

So he pulled up a chair and watched.

As they chatted he found out all kinds of useful little facts. The woman giving the tattoo—Mia Avila—owned and operated the shop. She opened it two years ago at age twenty-two after coming out of the wrong end of a marriage. The woman in the chair—Isella Ramirez—was married with two kids. The ink on her tit was a birthday present from hubby-face.

Mia Avila would be the one he’d take.

Assuming the opportunity presented itself.

4

DAY ONE–SEPTEMBER 5

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Back at headquarters, Teffinger sat through a series of afternoon meetings drinking decaf while his thoughts wandered to Davica. He liked her eyes, her voice, and the way she tossed her hair.

He needed to see her again, soon.

If not again today, then tomorrow for sure.

There was something between them, unspoken but yet tangible. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman’s pull had so strong a grip on him, especially right from the start.

After the last meeting, he swung by Sydney Heatherwood’s desk. At age twenty-seven, she was the newest detective in the Unit, personally stolen by Teffinger from vice a year ago. But she had already cut her teeth on two of the scariest guys to ever hit Denver.

“Want to take a ride?” he asked.

She looked relieved at the opportunity.

They were headed to the stairwell, almost past the elevators, when Sydney jumped in front of him waving a bill.

“Ten dollars if you take the elevator,” she said.

He stopped.

“Why?”

“Just to see if you’re capable.”

“I am,” he said, trying to walk around her.

She blocked him again.

“Ten bucks says you’re not,”