Authors: Jeff Buick
Darvin watched the taillights on the car until it turned the corner and disappeared. His mouth was twisted into a sneer and
his eyes glowed with anger.
“Dirty, dirty, dirty,” he said through clenched teeth. “Goddamn dirty bitch keeps getting away.”
He turned back to the room. There was much to do and little time. He picked up the phone and hit redial, then jotted down
the number that appeared on the display. The phone had an up-down button and he pushed it, recording every number Leona had
called until it reached the bottom of the list. Twenty numbers. He tucked the paper in his pocket and went in search of her
mail. He found a stack of unopened envelopes on the narrow table in the hallway and stuffed them in his waistband. Her office
was on the main floor, and he tried the computer. The monitor glowed when he touched the mouse. A quick click on Microsoft
Outlook and her e-mail program opened. He went to contacts and hit print, rummaging through her drawers while the printer
warmed up. Two minutes later he closed the back door behind him and blended into the blackness of Leona’s backyard.
His car was a block over on Hampshire, facing toward Dupont Circle. He merged in with the traffic, muttering curses under
his breath. Two steps closer and he could have slammed the door and snapped her neck. A couple of seconds had saved her.
Not for long
, he thought.
People are entirely
predictable
. Leona Hewitt wouldn’t disappoint him. Somewhere in the list of names he had taken off her phone and computer was the person
she would turn to for help. He’d know it when he saw it. That was one of his gifts.
Not one that would ever win him a philanthropic award, but a gift nevertheless.
It was getting late and he opted to pull into a small roadside motel and register for the night. No sense driving and getting
pulled over, his license scanned into the police computers. The less you gave the cops to work with, the less likely they
were to catch you. It was so simple. He checked in, paid cash for the room and spread the printouts from the woman’s computer
on the bed. The answer was there. He just needed to find it.
Mike Anderson replaced the handset and pushed open the door to the phone booth. The concourse was quiet; most of the people
from the arriving flight had already collected their luggage and headed for customs. He walked quickly past the baggage carousels,
cleared German customs and immigration, and went in search of a ticket agent. The American airlines were all closed, but Lufthansa
was open. The women spoke fluent English and found a flight leaving Frankfort for Washington, DC, at 11:16—a little over eight
hours. It was the best he could do.
“I need to call my friend in Washington and have her put the charge through on her credit card. I was robbed yesterday. I
lost everything but my passport.”
“I’m not sure we can make the long-distance call,” the woman said.
“I know my calling-card number. I can bill it to my account.”
She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.” She handed over the phone and Mike dialed Leona’s number, then
input his calling card number and password when prompted. The phone rang six times, then went to voice mail. He tried again
with the same result. Nothing changed on the third attempt. He stood at the counter, the phone in his hand, wondering where
she was. Another customer approached the counter and he handed the woman the phone and stepped off to the side.
No more than twenty minutes had passed since they had spoken. She told him she would wait for his call, yet she was gone.
Gone or dead. He felt helpless, useless. Trapped on the other side of the world from a friend who needed him. The ticket agent
finished with her customer and he stepped back up to the counter.
“Do you have an Internet connection?” he asked. “I can book the ticket through the site I use back in the US. They have my
credit card number on file.”
“Not here. Our ticketing system is tied into our mainframe computers. But there is an Internet café in the airport. One level
up. Use the first set of escalators and turn right.”
“Thanks,” Mike said. He headed for the café at a brisk pace. Even if he could get a flight, the best he could hope for was
to arrive in Washington in twelve to fourteen hours. That would be about midmorning in DC. Monday morning. People heading
back to work after the weekend. A normal day for most. Except Leona Hewitt.
George Harvey thanked the motorist for assisting Leona and staying with her until he arrived. They exchanged cards; the man
gave Leona a grim smile and wished her well, then drove off. Leona joined the DC detective in his car as a light rain began
to fall.
“Nice fellow,” Harvey said, twisting about in the seat and leaning his left elbow on the steering wheel. “You’re lucky he
was driving by.”
She nodded, watching the tiny drops of rain splatter against the windshield. “I’m not sure lucky is a good adjective to describe
me right now.”
“Did you get a look at the guy? Any sort of description?”
She shook her head. “All I saw was an outline. He was on the second-floor balcony and the only light was from the moon, which
was directly behind him.”
“Nothing that stands out?”
She watched the rain. Random little concentric circles against the glass. A bit like life—countless tiny happenings, all linked
together to form one giant patchwork quilt. The ultimate menagerie. “His hair,” she said, her voice surprising even herself.
“What about his hair?” the detective asked.
She closed her eyes and tried to piece it together. Why had she said that? What was it about his hair? There was something,
but what? The moonlight, reflecting off his shape, his head. It was light, blond almost, and perfect. That was it. Not a strand
out of place. Too perfect.
“I’ve seen his hair somewhere before,” she said, turning slowly to face Harvey. “I can’t remember where, but I know I’ve seen
him. In fact, I think I’ve been face-to-face with him.”
Harvey was silent for a while, letting her work with the thoughts spinning about her head. When she didn’t continue, he said,
“Sometimes if you forget about it for a while it comes back to you.”
She nodded. “Maybe.”
“Have you got somewhere to stay? Some place you know is safe?”
“Yes. I can go to a friend’s house. He’s in Europe tonight, heading home tomorrow. Ex-cop, in fact.”
“DC?” Harvey asked, thinking they may have crossed paths.
“New York.”
“You sure you’ll be okay at his place tonight?”
“I’ll be fine.”
A cruiser pulled up beside the unmarked car and two uniforms exited. Immediately behind them was another unmarked car. Two
plainclothes cops walked over to George Harvey’s vehicle. Harvey opened his door and turned back to Leona before he got out
to meet them.
“I’m going to give these guys the key to your place.” He held up the key she had given him a few minutes earlier. “They’ll
open it up and check things out, then wait while the CSI guys look for fingerprints on the balcony doors. I’ll give you a
lift to your friend’s place, then meet them back at your town house and call you. Let you know what we found.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Not a problem.” He slid out of the car and the five men stood in a circle, talking and nodding. He handed the key across
to one of the detectives and then brushed the rain off his coat and got back in the car. “Where to?”
“Brookland area. On Sargent Road. I think it’s a little northeast of Brookland actually. Michigan Park maybe.”
“Good part of town. Have a couple of buddies who live in Brookland. Lots of history.”
She smiled. He was talkative, trying to take her mind off what had happened. “I think Mike said his house was built in the
late thirties.”
“Sounds about right.” Harvey launched into a tirade about building standards and how tough it was to get a new home built
without wanting to kill the builder by the end of the process.
They talked as he drove and by the time they arrived her nerves were settled a bit and she’d stopped shaking. Harvey had her
wait in the car while he retrieved the key from under the flowerpot and made a thorough search of the house. For a few minutes,
she was alone with her thoughts. What had just happened was still like a bad dream. She had been stalked in her own house,
inches from the outstretched fin gers of a killer. It was absolute insanity. But not everything on her landscape was bleak.
At least the Washington police were aware of what was going on and were there for her. Mike Anderson was free and would find
his way back to the US. He was resourceful and she wasn’t too worried about not being in the house for his call from the airport.
He’d find another way to get a ticket home. She had a safe place to stay, and Detective Harvey had been watchful on the drive
over that no one was following them. The killer had no link to Mike Anderson’s house. She was okay for a few days.
But what about after that? What about her job? She couldn’t go in to work. That was the one place where she would be highly
visible. There was absolutely no doubt the killer knew where she worked. Hell, every problem—every danger—she faced now, was
as a direct result of her job. The damn income trust conversion. She loathed the day Anthony Halladay had walked into her
office with the promise of a vice presidency. At that time she hadn’t recognized what accepting that file would mean to her.
Looking back now, the writing had been in a large, easy-to-read font.
She remembered the moments leading up to her presentation in Halladay’s office, to a word that had flashed through her mind:
chaos. Her life had every appearance of coming apart at the seams, but in retrospect, that had been mild. Everything had spiraled
out of control almost from that time on. It was as if someone were trying to douse the fire with gasoline. Everything but
an outright admission by the Salt Lake police that Senator Claire Buxton had been murdered to keep the income trust conversion
on track. Her narrow escape from death in the stairwell. Two of her staff killed in the explosion.
And her restaurant? What was going to happen there? She should be contacting her insurance company, meeting them at the site,
going over damage estimates and figuring out what her policy would cover. She couldn’t do it. There was too great a danger
that the killer would be watching. She had to stay away from anything predictable right now. No routine that he could figure
out and be waiting.
George Harvey appeared on the porch, closed the front door and made his way back to the car. “All clear inside the house.”
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“You’re okay, that’s what counts. I’m going back to your place to see if the guys found anything. I’ll call you on your cell
phone.”
She nodded and gave him a quick hug. The action surprised him, but as they broke apart he smiled. She walked up the concrete
steps to the older brick town house and let herself in the front door, locking it behind her.
Safe, for now.
The phone rang at eleven-thirty. It was an older model with no call display, and Leona considered not answering it. But who
would be calling a half hour before midnight? Mike Anderson was the only person she could think of. She answered, relieved
to hear his voice on the other end of the line.
“What happened?” he asked. “Why did you leave your place?”
“Someone was in the house. I barely got out. Detective Harvey, he’s the homicide cop I met when I went to the police about
Reginald Morgan and Senator Buxton dying, picked me up and drove me to your place.”
“Christ, this guy was in your house? Who is this asshole?” He sounded furious.
“I don’t know, Mike,” she said with a sigh. “The police think he’s Derek Swanson’s paid killer. Swanson insists he’s innocent,
says he doesn’t know anything, but the cops are trying to find out who the killer is and tie him back to Swanson.”
“Why doesn’t he stop? He must know the cops are on to him.”
“That’s what George Harvey is wondering. It doesn’t make any sense. The income trust conversion is dead in the water. There’s
no upside to these guys killing anyone else.”
“Something about all this is wrong,” Mike said. Years of experience with the police department had taught him that people
didn’t commit crimes without a motive.
“You still in Frankfurt?”
“Yeah. I managed to get a ticket on Lufthansa. Bastards only had executive class left. You wouldn’t believe what the ticket
cost me.”
“I’ll reimburse you,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter who pays for it. It’s robbery.”
“When are you back in Washington?”
“Ten-sixteen tomorrow morning. I’ll call you when I arrive.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You okay in the house?”
“Sure. This is fine. Thanks for the offer.”
“It’s okay. The sheets in the guest room are clean.”
“Which one is it?”
“Top of the stairs, turn right, first door on the left. The place is hardly the Taj Mahal. It won’t take you long to find
it.” There was a moment of silence, then he said, “There’s a gun under the seat cushion on the couch in the living room. It’s
loaded. Snap off the safety and you’re ready to go.”
“I don’t like guns,” she said. “Dad used to encourage me to shoot gophers, but I always missed on purpose.”
“If this asshole comes anywhere near you, just point and pull the trigger. Don’t miss.”
“Guns scare me.”
“Guns scare me, too. That doesn’t matter. Take it upstairs with you. Tuck it under your pillow.”
“You’re lucky your cleaning lady never shot herself when she was vacuuming the seat cushions.”
“She did. I had to get another one. Turned out to be very bad. The new gal won’t touch the windows.”
His humor hit the mark and she smiled. “See you about noon tomorrow.”
“Yu p.”
Leona walked slowly through the living room to the kitchen. Mike Anderson’s house was early-bachelor, with no sense of décor.
The walls were pale green and the carpets teal. Wood paneling covered one wall, and his commendations from the time he spent
on the force hung randomly against the dark wood. The kitchen was worse, with flowered wallpaper and patterned linoleum that
clashed with the harvest gold appliances. She grimaced as she opened the fridge, expecting mold monsters. It was empty except
for a six-pack of beer and a tub of margarine. She closed the door and sat at the kitchen table, staring at the opposite wall.
A solitary picture hung in the space. It looked small, silly almost. Leona focused on the people. Mike and his ex-wife, both
smiling. Better times. They were holding hands and there was a sparkle in his eyes. How could he forgive her—still love her
like he did? She cheated on him, slept with another man. Yet he’d take her back in a minute.
Her father’s face drifted through her subconscious. Why couldn’t she just accept the man as he was? What stopped her from
opening her heart? He was a good man, hardworking and intelligent. Funny sometimes. Not often—mostly he was businesslike and
gruff. Maybe that was the key. They were different from the most basic chromosomes outward. She was creative, giving, and
acted on what her heart told her was right. He was money and material things. Accepting the fundamental differences between
them was the key. Could she do it? She had no idea.
Leona walked into the living room and stared at the couch. Aside from being butt ugly, it looked normal enough. She tentatively
lifted the middle cushion. A section of the material was cut away and a thin wooden box jammed between the metal coils. She
pulled it out and opened it, revealing a revolver. She touched it. The metal was cold. She wrapped her hand around the handle
and lifted. It was heavier than she expected. The bullets were visible, each sitting in its chamber like little torpedoes
loaded in their tubes and ready to fire. She placed her thumb on the hammer and cocked the gun. It made a clicking sound,
a low noise in the quiet room that didn’t carry very far. She carefully released the hammer and let it settle back in its
housing. The gun hung from her hand, pointing at the floor.
Is this what her life had come to? Standing in a strange house, holding a gun. Waiting for a hired killer to track her down
and murder her. Even as a dream, this would be a good one. Too bad it was real.