Authors: Jeff Buick
Leona Hewitt was predictable. And predictability made his job easy.
He had been watching her for four days and her routine was the same. Leave for the office a few minutes after six-thirty,
work until five, then head for her restaurant. Some days she was in and out, others she closed the place. That was the only
inconsistency. It didn’t matter. He already had three different ways of killing her.
Darvin sipped coffee and watched her interact with the staff at her restaurant. She was the owner, he had established that
easily enough, and visited often to help out wherever she could. The chef was in complete charge of the kitchen, and she had
little input there. The front end of the restaurant was more her domain. She worked alongside the serving staff when it was
busy, and spent time sitting at one of the tables near the back working on paperwork after the dinner rush.
She was interesting, for a woman. Not a thin beanpole like all those skinny fashion queens, and not fat, just sturdy. He liked
that. And she had a nice smile. Lots of teeth—some of them a bit crooked—not the product of orthodontics. There was life in
her eyes and her hair bounced about when she moved.
It was too bad she had to die.
He finished his coffee and set two twenties on the edge of the table to catch the server’s attention. The woman was busy and
the money sat for a couple of minutes. Leona noticed the cash and started toward his table. He felt a slight adrenaline rush
as she walked over to him. The Christian coming to the lion.
“I’ll get you some change,” she said, smiling.
“No, that’s fine. The young lady who served me was great. She can keep the change.”
Again, the smile. “It’s a generous tip. That’s kind of you.”
Darvin returned the smile. Kind wasn’t a word he heard all that often. “Nice place.”
“Thanks. It keeps me busy.”
“You own it?”
“Yeah, and work full-time. I must be nuts.”
“You work full-time at both jobs?” Darvin acted surprised. Keep her talking, she’ll give her schedule.
“No, I’m only here off and on. The staff run the place.”
“You’re lucky to have good staff.”
“Very. I don’t do much in the kitchen, which is too bad because that’s why I opened the place to start with. I like to cook.”
“Not me,” Darvin said. “I don’t mind paying for a good meal.” Then he added, “Do you help with the menu? It’s quite eclectic.
And different, especially the sauces.”
“That’s my chef’s doing. He’s brilliant in the kitchen. I come in every Saturday morning and we go over the menu for the week,
but other than that, it’s all him.”
He had what he needed. Time to leave. “Well, thanks for the meal. It was very good.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. One more smile and she was gone.
Darvin took his time leaving, visiting the men’s room, then walking slowly through the restaurant to the front door. By the
time he reached the sidewalk, he knew exactly how he was going to kill Leona Hewitt. Some things were not all that difficult.
This was one of them.
His rental car was parked a block down on M Street. His phone rang as he approached the parking spot. The caller ID registered
as
unknown
, but he decided to take the call anyway. Derek Swanson’s voice came across the line.
“Why are you calling?” Darvin asked him, his voice cool, detached.
“The police were at my house yesterday. They were asking a lot of questions.”
“That’s what they do, Derek. They get paid to ask questions.”
“One was from Washington, the other worked Homicide in Salt Lake City. A little too much for coincidence, don’t you think?”
Darvin leaned against the car. This was fun, listening to the fear in the man’s voice. “Was that a question? Am I supposed
to answer it?”
“They’re on to us.”
“Us? They’re on to you, Derek. They have no idea who I am. In fact,
you
have no idea who I am. You have one phone number that will never lead to the real me, you don’t know my last name, and you’re
probably not even sure if Darvin is my real first name. So how is this supposed to worry me?”
“This wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t killed Claire Buxton and her son. That was stupid.”
“This wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t asked me to kill Reginald Morgan. You started this. Now you’re getting scared because
things aren’t going all that well.”
“Scared? I’m pissed off. I’m fucking furious is what I am,” Swanson yelled into the phone. “This whole thing is over. It’s
finished. Pull your goddamn claws back in and go crawl under a rock.”
“That was a mistake,” Darvin said. “You just fucked up, Derek. Real bad.”
He hung up and turned the phone off. A smile crept across his face as he envisioned Derek Swanson hitting redial. The man
was a mess, fear oozing out every pore of his body. His pampered lifestyle was hanging by a very thin thread. If he thought
things were bad now, wait until Leona Hewitt died. The shit was going to hit the fan and when it did, most of it would be heading
in Derek Swanson’s direction. The money was history, he had already accepted that. Once the banker was dead, the conversion
to an income trust would come to an abrupt stop. Now it was partially for fun. Swanson had insulted him, ridiculed him, lied
to him and tried to cut him out of the deal. Payback was due.
No one had ever crossed him and walked away without paying some sort of price. Ever. And that was one thing that wasn’t going
to change. He was going to take everything that Derek Swanson valued away from him. His position in society, his money, his
freedom. Perhaps even his life. Derek Swanson deserved it more than he knew. But he’d find out soon enough.
For two days Kubala had watched the house. A handful of people had come and gone, but Tuato was not one of them. And the car
that held Mike Anderson’s ticket to freedom was nowhere to be seen. The midday heat was stifling, dangerous even. He had spent
a considerable amount of his meager supply of money on bottled water. Dehydration was a very real threat when you spent the
day in an enclosed space superheated by the African sun. He took a long draught on his final bottle of water and set it on
the seat beside him. This wasn’t working. He needed to do something else. Waiting for Tuato to come to him was not the answer.
As far as he knew, there was one person at home, a young woman in her midtwenties. He had identified three other people as
regulars—one woman and two men. None of them over thirty. And no children. The three who were gone were always well dressed,
left early and returned at dusk in the same car. The regular hours and choice of clothing suggested they all had some sort
of office job, perhaps in the business district. It was Friday afternoon. If they worked Monday to Friday, they would be off
on the weekend, which meant all four would be at home. If he were going to approach the house, now was the time, when the
woman was alone. One person would give up information easier than four.
He slipped out of the Land Rover and walked the half block to the house and knocked on the door. The paint was fresh and the
adobe façade was in good repair, making it one of the best cared for houses on the run-down street. It took a full minute
before the woman answered. She stared out through a crack between the door and the jamb. Her eyes were filled with mistrust
and anxiety.
“What do you want?” she asked. There was fear in her voice.
“I am looking for Tuato,” Kubala said in a soft voice. “I work with Mike Anderson, the American he drives for, and I have
a paycheck to deliver. Will he be home soon?”
The woman hesitated before answering. “He doesn’t live here. He moved.”
“Oh,” Kubala said, a tinge of concern creeping into his facial features.
“I can take the check and give it to him,” she said.
Kubala smiled. “Yes, in most cases that would be fine. But not with this one. Mr. Mike has asked me to deliver this personally
to Tuato, along with a message.”
“What message?” She opened the door a few more inches.
“One for Tuato. It is of a personal nature.”
“Let me see the check,” she said.
“The check is in the car,” he answered. “Where it’s safe.”
“Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.
“Kubala.” He licked his lips, dry in the intense heat. “I’m due to return to Samburu tomorrow. I want to give Tuato his money
before I leave. Otherwise he will have to wait until I come back to Nairobi.”
“You are the man who comes in from Samburu? The one who works with the elephants.”
He nodded. “I am.”
She gave the matter serious thought, then said, “Yes, I suppose it’s okay. He lives on Weruga Lane.”
“Ah, yes. Near the railway station.”
She nodded. “Number eighty-two.”
“Thank you.” He smiled and dipped his head slightly.
Kubala returned to the Land Rover and turned over the ignition. He needed to get moving quickly, as time was now a factor.
The woman at the house would tell the others who lived with her of his visit and someone would travel to the nearest telephone
to call Tuato. If Tuato had a phone. And even if he did, there was no guarantee they would be able to reach him. Phone service
in Nairobi was not the best when one was trying to reach the slummier areas. The phones in the upscale villas and five-star
hotels worked fine. Still, Kubala figured he had one, maybe two days to find the car and get the money. When he didn’t show
with the check, Tuato would be on edge, watching. Then getting to the car would be more difficult.
He had only met Tuato and Momba once, and briefly at that. Usually Mike Anderson had cut the two men loose by the time it
was his turn to transport the American to the game preserve. Anderson always spent a couple of days in Nairobi, between depositing
the money in the bank and heading out to Samburu, sampling the various brands of liquor. The lack of personal connection between
him and Tuato was probably a good thing. Kubala didn’t want to come face-to-face with Tuato again, as it would entail making
up some sort of story about why he was there. Telling the man there was eighty thousand American dollars under the driver’s
seat of his car was not an option.
Traffic was normal, which meant insane by almost all other standards. No one obeyed the laws and traffic lights were more
of a suggestion than an actual authority. A battered Renault scraped the side of the Land Rover as the driver tried to fit
through a narrow gap, but Kubala waved the man on. He wanted to get where he was going and nothing would be done about the
scratch anyway. The police were too busy drinking strong coffee, or kidnapping people, to care. He stayed off the ring road
and stuck to the secondary streets, crossing under Haile Selassie Avenue and entering the downtrodden subdivision of Muthurwa.
The buildings were three-story tenements, decaying with age like a rotting carcass in the heat. The stench of garbage and
sewage was strong.
Kubala turned off Railway Avenue onto Weruga Lane and cruised slowly down the street, watching the building numbers and scanning
the parked cars for Tuato’s ride. He passed number eighty-two, another dilapidated hellhole filled with desperate families
and street-level thugs looking for an easy way out of their poverty. It was nothing new. He’d seen the same scene every day
of his life. There was a parking spot near the end of the block and he pulled in. He switched off the ignition and stepped
out onto the pavement. A pack of dogs cruised past, showing some teeth, tails down. Like the punks on the street, Kubala thought.
Tough kids, scared to death of the life they were living.
He walked the street, another black man in a black nation on a continent of unfulfilled dreams. He drew no attention, no second
looks as he sat on a door stoop across from Tu-ato’s apartment. The man would return home at some point. And then the challenge
of getting at the money would present itself. Nothing easy. Like Africa itself.
“Has he made any outgoing phone calls?” George Harvey asked the technician working the electronic surveillance on Derek Swanson’s
house and office.
“A few from the office, none from home. I’ll print you a list.”
Harvey waited a minute, then took the paper from the tech. “Thanks,” he said, heading back to his corner office where Marion
Jeffries waited. By the time he arrived, the detective knew they had drawn blanks on their surveillance.
“Anything?” the Salt Lake City homicide detective asked.
He shook his head. “Swanson made no calls from home, and very few from his office phone. Fewer still from his cell phone.
Almost like he was trying to stay off the line.”
“Think he suspects we’re watching?”
Harvey shrugged. “Who knows. The guy isn’t dumb. He’s probably being careful.”
“Think he’s involved?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Harvey said. “I think he’s in this up to his asshole. He didn’t kill them, but his fingerprints are all over the
murders. What about you? What do you think?”
“He’s the motivation behind it. Has a trigger man of some sort.”
“Think he’ll go after Leona Hewitt?” Harvey asked.
Jeffries shook her head. “No. He knows we’re watching him. She’s safe.”
“I agree.” He consulted his notes, a compilation of what his department, working with Jeffries, had accumulated since Leona
Hewitt had visited them four days ago. He recounted what they had to date. “Reginald Morgan disappears off
Brilliance of the Seas
. That means premeditation. Swanson had someone on the ship. We’ve pulled the passenger manifest, concentrating on late bookings.
Swanson’s person will be one of the last to secure a cabin, and that narrows our search to a reasonable number. Somewhere
around two hundred people.”
“That’s workable,” Jeffries said.
“Swanson knows that Morgan isn’t coming back, and that allows him to push ahead with the trust conversion without internal
opposition. Then he runs into another problem. His lobbyist, Jack Dunn, is unable to convince enough of the decision makers
to reject Senator Claire Buxton’s bill. It looks inevitable that it’ll pass. And that means Buxton has to go. Another call
to his hatchet man.”
“Or woman,” Jeffries said. “You know us women these days. Nothing we can’t do.”
Harvey gave her a sour look, the kind only a man twice divorced can master. He rubbed his hand across his goatee. “That gives
us some approximate dates for outgoing calls from Swanson’s phones.”
“You’ve pulled his phone logs?”
“Yesterday. I’ve got two people working them. He made a lot of calls, local and long distance, over the past few weeks. It’s
going to take some time. This is a slow one.”
“Well, maybe we’ve got one clue from the crash in Salt Lake.”
“What?” Harvey asked.
“Our forensics found a bit of blood in the wreckage that doesn’t belong. Under the driver’s seat. The impact of the crash
impaled Buxton on the steering column and she bled out directly below onto the floor mat. From the positioning of her body,
there was no way it got there as a result of the accident. We checked it out. It’s not Claire Buxton’s or either of her kids’. We
asked her husband for a sample, just in case, but it’s not his.”
“Under the seat? That’s weird.”
“Very. Makes you wonder how the hell that happens. Someone reaching for something and cuts himself?”
“Could be the killer,” Harvey said.
“Could be,” she agreed.
“The report said traces of hydrogen cyanide were found on the carpet. Once we found that we ran a tox screen on the bodies.
Cyanide bonds to an enzyme called cytochrome, and once that happens, oxygen transfer is inhibited at the cellular level. We
found traces of cyanide in Buxton and her son. There’s little doubt that the crash was a result of her reaction to the cyanide.”
“Dizziness, loss of consciousness.”
“Exactly. So the question that has to be asked is how does the van cabin fill with cyanide, yet leave no clue as to how it
got there? No canister. No crushed glass from a vial. Nothing. Perhaps he grabbed the evidence.”
Marion Jeffries nodded. “That’s a legit line of thought.
If the blood is legit and not one of the kid’s friends or something like that, then our best guess is that whoever planted
the gas was the first to arrive at the crash site.”
“Anyone see this person?” Harvey asked, leaning forward.
“The first man on the scene who came forward as a witness remembers another guy being there, but has no recollection of what
he looks like. White and male, that’s it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s our killer.”
“Guy is first on the scene, then doesn’t hang around to make a witness statement. Makes you wonder.” He closed the file on
his desk. “When are you heading back to Utah?”
“I fly out tomorrow morning.”
“When is your office going to release the results of Senator Buxton’s autopsy?”
“A few more days at least. We don’t want to stir the pot until we’ve exhausted every lead, like what we’ve got here in Washington.
Once we’re sure there’s no upside to keeping her cause of death under wraps, we’ll hold a press conference.”
“That’s going to make the headlines,” Harvey said.
“Precisely why we don’t want to let it go public too quick. Everyone and their dog will have a smoking gun. High-profile cases
always bring out the nutcases. What would be really nice is if the Derek Swanson angle worked and we nailed him and the person
who planted the gas in the van. Then when we make the announcement, we’ve already got someone in custody.”
Harvey nodded emphatically. “We’ve got something to work with on this end. If there’s a trail, we’ll find it. And once we
do, I’ll be on the phone. First thing.”
Jeffries smiled. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem. I think we all want to get this guy.”
“The killer or Swanson?”
“Both,” he said.