Lawyer Trap

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Two heartbeats after Nick Teffinger rang the bell of the expensive contemporary mansion, a naked woman walked across a marble vestibule toward the door, in the process of throwing a long-sleeve shirt over a perfectly tanned body. She had one button done when she opened the door, and looked a lot more like a movie star than a murderer.

Teffinger introduced himself as he shifted his 34-year-old frame from one foot to the other, explained that he was with Denver homicide and asked, “Are you Davica Holland?”

She said nothing and instead studied his eyes.

“One’s blue and one’s green,” she said. “I couldn’t figure it out at first.”

Teffinger shrugged.

“One of my many flaws.” He couldn’t look away. She wasn’t just attractive, but dangerously so, with hypnotic green eyes.

She turned.

“Come in.”

He followed her through a vaulted space with marble columns, exotic plants, and modern art. She appeared to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. A black tattoo wrapped around her right ankle, something in the nature of a tribal band. Her hair was damp and hung perfectly straight, about six inches below her shoulders. Right now it seemed light brown but no doubt softened to blond when it dried.

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