Authors: Jeff Buick
The American embassy in Nairobi was of no assistance. They had no idea who Mike Anderson was, or where he might be. If he
was even still in the country. And until someone could produce proof he wasn’t shacked up in one of the many brothels in the
sprawling city, they weren’t pre pared to start looking for him. Leona was frustrated, but not surprised. If embassies and
law enforcement agencies jumped every time someone went missing for a couple of days, their workloads would double or triple.
She had spent most of Sunday on the phone, but with little to show for it. It was after midnight when she fell into bed. Her
favorite movie,
Chariots of Fire
, was in the DVD player and she burrowed into her pillow and watched it for the nth time. What fascinated her about the film
was all the characters doing the same thing, but for different reasons. Maybe fundraising was the same—so many people looking
for money for so many good causes.
When she woke on Monday, the skies had clouded over and a light rain was falling on the nation’s capital. Leona drove to work,
the wipers beating a steady cadence as they cleared the water from the windshield. She took the stairs to the twelfth floor
and was breathing deeply when she finally reached the upper stairwell. It was early, before seven, and the hallway was deserted.
Her breathing and pulse returned to normal as she stopped by the staff room and grabbed her morning Diet Coke. Can in hand,
she settled into her office with the reports for the Coal-Balt income trust conversion in front of her.
Her decision to approve the trust conversion was a bit of a shock—even to her. The company was going to face problems in the
near future, even more so if Senator Claire Bux-ton’s bill passed. But her job was to assess risk and determine whether the
bank would find its investment in jeopardy if the conversion were successful. Nothing in the reports indicated that the bank’s
loan would be compromised. Would she buy shares in the company? Absolutely not. The medium-to long-term prospectus for the
company was okay, but not rosy. Short-term gain drove the deal; she knew it. But had the company compromised any regulatory
or accounting standards? Not that she could see. And that was the basis of her decision. They had done nothing wrong.
“You’re in early.”
The voice shocked her and she spilled soda on her desk and one of the printouts. She looked up to the door. The bank’s CEO,
Anthony Halladay, was leaning on the door jamb. “Are we still on for two this afternoon?” he asked.
“Yes. Two is fine. Sorry, you gave me a bit of a start. I didn’t think anyone was in yet.”
“Just you and me.” He moved into the office, his footsteps inaudible on the thick carpet. “Have you finished the reports on
Coal-Balt?”
Leona pointed at the papers on her desk. “Everything is done. Ready for the meeting.”
“And . . .”
“Things are fine,” she said.
He smiled. “Excellent. That’s good news.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll see you at two.”
“Two o’clock.”
Halladay vanished into the dimly lit hallway and Leona finished dabbing the errant liquid off the papers. A few needed to
be reprinted, but that was easy. She made a note of the page numbers and walked it out to her executive assistant’s desk,
then retreated to her office. The sun was up and light flooded through the easterly facing window, but the dark wood closed
in the space around her. She sucked in a few deep breaths and felt the anxiety decrease. Damn the claustrophobia. She was,
and always had been, a tomboy. Tough to the core, her father’s son he never had. But she couldn’t fight the pure fear she
felt when the world closed in on her. Elevators were a nightmare. Even public washroom stalls felt confined. And there was
no upside to the phobia. None at all. She glanced at the door as another face appeared. It was Bill Cawder.
“Big day.” Steam wafted from the cup he held in his hand.
“How’s that?” Leona asked.
“The Coal-Balt report is due. Your first test as VP.”
Leona shook her head, her mouth open slightly. “That’s amazing. How did you remember that?”
“Like a steel trap.” He touched the side of his head. “That, and the fact that my report on Nabisco is due today as well.”
“Ahh,” she said, nodding. “And how did that go?”
“A no-brainer. Easiest decision I’ve had to make in six years. Yours?”
“Probably not as easy, but it went well. Anthony Halladay should be pleased.”
“Good to hear. He’s the one who counts. See you later.”
“’Bye.”
More staff were arriving and the hallway lights came on. Ruth, her executive assistant, poked her head in the door.
“Did you make any changes to the files you want me to reprint, or are we using the same ones we used to make the original
copies?”
“Same files. I spilled pop on them.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“No rush, I’m not due in Halladay’s office until two.”
There were a few small details she needed to take care of on the Coal-Balt file, some e-mails that required a response and
a handful of voice mails on her phone. It was approaching noon when she wrapped everything up and cleared her desk. She walked
down the hall to the staff room and picked up a copy of the
Washington Post
. She sat down, flipped open the paper and stopped dead. Staring back at her from the front page was Senator Claire Buxton.
The caption under the photo explained the article in five words.
Senator Killed in Car Crash
.
Leona read the copy, quickly at first, then reread it, looking for any hints that Buxton’s death might have been something
other than an accident. Nothing. The reporter kept to the facts, stating that the weather conditions were optimum, the pavement
was dry and there was no fog or low cloud obscuring the road. A driver was quoted as saying that he had passed her going in
the opposite direction and she had crossed the center line, almost hitting his vehicle. She crashed a few hundred yards down
the road, her van traveling through a guardrail and down a steep embankment. The senator’s son died in the crash, but her
seventeen-year-old daughter survived, and was in serious condition in the intensive-care ward of Salt Lake Regional Medical
Center. The remainder of the article was on Claire Buxton’s contributions as a senator and a mother.
What was going on? Reginald Morgan, CEO of CoalBalt, disappears from a cruise ship sailing through calm waters. Senator Claire
Buxton, the author of a new bill that would deeply impact Coal-Balt, is killed while driving in the middle of the afternoon
under ideal conditions. And all this just before Coal-Balt was scheduled to convert to an income trust. What were the chances?
Slim, she thought, but possible. She set the paper on her desk and leaned back in her chair. Who stood to benefit from the
conversion? The company’s common shares would increase dramatically, and that played in Reginald Morgan’s favor. It also benefited
Derek Swanson, the second-largest private shareholder behind Morgan. But did it benefit him enough for him to murder two people,
three if you counted the senator’s son? She flipped through the file, looking for the information on Coal-Balt’s major shareholders.
When she found it, she recalculated the value of Derek Swanson’s shares with the projected figures after the conversion. A
touch over thirty-five million dollars. Plus bonuses. Corporate executives always tied their stock options and bonuses into
the company’s performance on the market. And Swanson’s bonus would be substantial. Maybe another ten million. That totaled
to the mid-forty-million mark and gave Derek Swanson a whole lot of motivation to keep the trust conversion on track.
Leona stood up and walked to the window and stared down at the street. What the hell was she thinking? Murder? A company president
killing off people for his own personal financial gain? How totally ridiculous was that? Stupid thinking, that’s what it was.
Reginald Morgan had fallen over the edge of a cruise ship and Senator Claire Buxton had perished in a traffic accident. It
was simple. Don’t read any more into it.
But still, her intuition was telling her that something wasn’t right.
The low-pressure front had settled in over the entire eastern seaboard, then pushed inland, and West Virginia was socked in
under low cloud cover. Derek Swanson stood at a second-floor window in the front of his house, staring over the small city
of Morgantown. How much longer would he have to live here? One year, maybe two. Then he could bow out of his position at Coal-Balt
and return to Richmond. That day couldn’t come quick enough.
He turned away from the window and slipped on a suit jacket. Morgantown was okay, and he was a big fish in a small pond, but
his life was in Richmond. He missed the restaurants, the theater, the culture that a smaller center could never provide. He
hadn’t dated anyone since he moved to Morgantown, at least not with any degree of regularity, and missed the women. A handful
of images flashed through his mind—one stayed.
Jill. Jill Brower. A stunning brunette with a wide smile and a quick sense of humor. The last time he had called she was still
single. Maybe when he returned to Richmond . . .
His cell phone vibrated and he checked the number. It was an internal number from DC Trust. He knew exactly who it would be.
This was one call he was expecting.
“Hello,” he said. “I hope you have good news.”
“Yes,” the voice said. “She’s going to approve the conversion.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Swanson said, allowing himself a smile. “What happens from here?”
“Leona Hewitt submits her report and the bank goes on record as backing the change in accounting practices. You already have
regulatory approval from the stock exchange, pending the bank’s decision, so it’s a done deal. Your legal team will handle
things from here.”
“Excellent. How long will it take?”
“That’s a question for your lawyers. I can only speak for the bank.”
“I understand. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Not a problem.”
Swanson killed the line. Having a contact person on the twelfth floor of the bank was crucial to his success. He relied on
the man to feed him inside information and steer decisions his way whenever possible. That connection would come in handy
later, when Coal-Balt needed hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade their facilities. But that would be someone else’s
problem, not his. He set the alarm and exited his house through the garage, backing the Porsche into the circular drive, then
winding out the gears as he steered through the tight turn leading to the street. His cell phone rang again as he pulled out
from his private drive. He answered without looking at the number.
“Good morning, Derek.”
Swanson tensed. It was Darvin’s voice. “What do you want?” His tone was cool, bordering on uncivil.
“Having a good day?”
“Tell me what you want or I’m hanging up.”
“You haven’t seen the newspapers today, have you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Darvin’s voice was aloof, almost condescending. “You really should read the early morning paper, Derek. Especially a man in
your position. How can you be a leader if you don’t know what’s going on in the world?”
“Stop fucking around,” Swanson said, his anger rising. “I’m busy. I have to go.”
“Read the paper, Derek. You’ll be very pleased.”
A dial tone followed the final word and Swanson flipped the phone shut. What the hell was the demented fool talking about?
What could be in the papers today that would interest him more than any other day? He touched the accelerator slightly and
the sports car surged ahead. He’d be at the office soon enough. Then he would find out what Darvin was on about.
Darvin set the phone on his kitchen counter and grinned. What a dumb fuck. Derek Swanson was so screwed . . . and he didn’t
even know it yet. Soon enough. This time it would be Swanson calling him.
The house was dark, every blind drawn against the sun. A solitary light hung over the tiny island in the kitchen, the light
illuminating a stack of dirty dishes and empty pizza boxes piled on the counter and overflowing onto the floor. The stench
from the rotting food was overpowering and every breath was an affront to his senses. He left the kitchen and navigated a
narrow staircase to the upper floor. The odor dissipated as he reached the second floor and was almost unnoticeable as he
opened the door at the end of the hall. The heavy drapes were open a crack, allowing enough sunlight in to showcase a surreal
scene.
It was a bedroom, with an armoire and a matching dresser and night table. An old-style alarm clock, with two bells and a ringer,
sat on the night table, positioned beside the single bed. The covers were pulled up and the pillow shams smoothed—no wrinkles.
A wheelchair sat motionless against the far wall. Darvin walked across the room and threw back the curtains.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said.
The sudden influx of light flooded the room and color sprang from the darkness. The comforter was bright pink, the wallpaper
a muted rose with lavender flowers. The corpse sitting in the wheelchair remained pale gray.
Darvin strode over to where the emancipated cadaver sat, its elbows resting on the arms of the chair, its bony hands grasping
the wooden curls like eagle’s talons. The eye sockets were empty holes, and any skin that was left over the skeleton was stretched
tight with long vertical creases and cracks. Yellow teeth protruded from the petrified jaw. Jagged bones protruded from the
dried skin on both legs, evidence of compound fractures inflicted before death.
His eyes fixated on the broken bones, then he kneeled and ran his finger along their sharp edges. “You’re all broken,” he
hissed. “Broken and withered and weak. Never thought the day would come when you were the one begging for a doctor . . . begging
for your life.” He stopped touching her and leaned forward, his face only inches from the hollow eyes.
“Weak, Mother. Pathetic and weak.” His voice changed, higher in pitch and demanding. “And your tears. I never knew you could
cry. But I gave you something to cry about, didn’t I? You felt what it was like to be brutalized. To be humiliated. Poor baby.
Poor Mother.” He stood up, a malicious leer etched on his face.
“Another dirty thing is dead, Mother. And Darvin never touched it.” He pushed on the safety brake and silently wheeled the
chair about the room. The corpse’s thin hair swayed in the stale air. “Never touch the dirty things. That’s what you told
me. I listened well. I don’t touch them, and I never let the dirty things touch me. Never.”
He returned the chair to its original spot, walked over to the window and looked out. The farmhouse was nestled into a large
square of hickory and black oak trees, invisible from the secondary highway that ran by a few hundred feet to the north. In
the summer, when the foliage on the trees was full, he felt safe from the world. In the winter, when the leaves dropped and
the snowy fields were visible from the window, he felt naked. Exposed. He hated the winter.
“The meal I had last night was wonderful.” He continued to stare out the window. “Cajun chicken with risotto and asparagus.
Very different from when you were doing the cooking. And I didn’t clean the kitchen yet. It’s quite disgusting. I think you
would be very angry with me.” He turned from the window and looked into the hollow sockets that at one time had held hateful
eyes. “But you don’t care, do you? You’re dead.”
He stared at her for a few minutes, then added, “Thank God for that.”
Derek Swanson breezed through the outer office and said the perfunctory good mornings to the admin staff in the bullpen. He
walked down the hall and stopped for a moment at his executive assistant’s desk.
“Do we have a copy of today’s newspaper?” he asked.
“
USA Today
and the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
,” she responded, handing him both.
“Thanks.”
Swanson headed straight into his office and threw the papers on his desk. He powered up his computer and checked his e-mail.
Sixteen new messages had come in over the weekend and he scanned them to see if any were high priority. None were. He sat
back in his chair and picked up the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
. The usual drudgery covered the front page—terrorist bombings, murders and high-profile court cases. He flipped through most
of the first section, wondering what Darvin had been talking about. He stopped on page twelve, his eyes fixated on one of
the articles:
UTAH SENATOR DIES IN CAR CRASH.
Slowly, he allowed his eyes to drop from the headline to the copy. He read it, all the while knowing he was reading a lie.
Senator Claire Buxton didn’t die accidentally. She had been murdered. He didn’t know the details, but he was sure Darvin was
responsible. Swanson set the paper on his desk and closed his eyes. He felt sick. The twisted bastard had taken things into
his own hands and removed the senator before her bill was introduced to Congress. And now he was tied in with her death. He
would never be able to convince anyone that Darvin had acted unilaterally when he killed the politician and her son. The same
brush would paint both of them. Tar and feather them, rather.
He stood on shaky legs and walked to the window. Why had he involved Darvin? The man was a complete psychopath. He had seen
something in the killer’s eyes the first time they had met, when the union rep had to die. Something that had bothered him.
A coldness that went beyond any vestige of normalcy. A tiny window into a sick and troubled mind. But he had opened the latch
and let the man into his life. Now, with everything at stake, that mistake was coming back at him like a runaway boulder crashing
down a hill. And there was little he could do to stop it. What did the twisted bastard want? Money, to be sure. But how much?
A specific figure, or a percentage of the net gain in the common shares after the conversion? Either one was too much. He
had brought the man in to take care of a single task and had paid him well for it. But what would be the final figure? That
was the question. And to that, he had no answer.