Authors: Jeff Buick
“He didn’t say what he wants?” Mike asked, as the doorbell sounded.
Leona shook her head. “Not a word. Just that he wanted to meet.”
Mike answered the door and introduced himself to the man on the stoop. They returned to the front room and George Harvey sat
on the couch next to Leona.
“We’ve had a bit of a break on Claire Buxton’s case,”
he said.
“I thought Claire Buxton died in Utah,” Mike interjected.
“Strange you should be working the case.”
Harvey nodded, then spoke directly to Mike Anderson, bringing him up to speed on the file. “The Salt Lake CSI team found some
blood in the van that didn’t belong to the senator or her children. On a long shot, we got court approval for a sample of
Derek Swanson’s DNA. We never expected them to match.”
“Was it his DNA in Buxton’s van?” Leona asked.
Harvey shook his head. “No, but the two samples were very similar. Far too close to be random.” He asked Leona, “Do you know
anything about DNA testing?”
“Not really. What I’ve seen on television.”
“Each of our cells contains a complete strand of our DNA, with the exception of platelets and red blood cells. But blood can
still be used as a DNA fingerprint by typing the white blood cells. The Utah police used those cells and came up with a set
of thirteen regions, or markers as we call them. We did the same with Derek Swanson’s DNA sample. Then we compared the two.”
“And . . .” Leona said, leaning forward.
“Think of the thirteen markers as lottery balls. To match one out of thirteen is reasonable. Two is still within reason. Three
is starting to push the limits of probability. Four and above is beyond random chance. We had a match on nine of thirteen.”
“Nine?” Leona said. “But if it were the same person, wouldn’t all thirteen match?”
Harvey nodded. “Allowing for some contamination in the testing, the match would be very close to thirteen. Nine is low for
an exact match, but too high to be random.”
“Whoever was at the van was related to Derek Swanson,” Mike Anderson said. “Father, brother, sister—someone from the same
gene pool.”
“That’s what we think,” the DC detective said.
“Any idea who this person is?”
“We’re checking into it. Swanson has no brothers or sisters. At least that’s what we initially thought. Then we found something
interesting.” He paused for a moment. “Derek Swanson is adopted. His parents couldn’t have children.”
“Have you found his biological parents?” Mike asked.
Harvey shook his head. “Not yet, but I have a team working on it. I suspect we’ll know sometime today who they are.”
“So if Derek Swanson has a brother or sister, they could be the killer,” Leona said.
“That’s what we’re thinking.”
“So why would this person, this sibling, still want to kill Leona?” Mike asked. “Taking her out of the picture isn’t going
to resurrect the income trust conversion.”
“Maybe they still think the deal is on,” Harvey said without conviction.
Leona shook her head. “No way. Swanson has an inside man at the bank. He knows the deal is dead.”
“Then there has to be some sort of motivation. Or he would stop.”
“Maybe he’s crazy,” Leona said. “Nothing would surprise me now.”
“Whoever is killing these people is far from crazy,” Harvey said. “Disturbed, sick, demented, without empathy, dangerous—but
not crazy. Nutcases don’t plan and implement murders with this degree of precision.”
“Why would he want Leona dead?” Mike asked, thinking out loud. “Money is out. Revenge perhaps?”
“Revenge?”
“He thinks you’ve wronged him—or Swanson.”
They talked in circles for the better part of an hour, no further ahead when they finally wrapped up. Mike and Leona stood
on the front stoop with the detective and shook hands.
“You won’t let her out of your sight until we get this guy?” Harvey said.
“Only if she needs to use the ladies’ room,” Mike said.
“Good. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Mike and Leona returned to the house and he put on some coffee. They sat at the kitchen table talking, mostly about Africa.
Save Them had been such a bright light in a country that needed illumination. Now it was gone, courtesy of one man’s greed.
But that was Africa, where the ones at the top of the food chain ruined lives on the lower rungs. So many innocent and decent
people victimized by so few.
“What will you do about the restaurant?” Mike asked, returning the conversation to more local geography.
She shrugged. “I have to talk with the insurance adjusters. If they hedge on paying out I’m finished. I need the money to
rebuild.”
“Why wouldn’t they pay?”
“Someone was trying to kill me when they blew up the place. Not exactly the kind of thing that’s covered under clause five,
subparagraph nine.”
“I suppose not.”
Leona shook her head. Tyler was so happy when she offered him part of the business. He was young and eager, and she knew the
relationship would pay off. Now it was all in jeopardy of disappearing. She closed her eyes and envisioned the dining room
before the explosion. Everything in its place—knives and forks carefully positioned by the plates. Water and wineglasses.
Crisp, white tablecloths and soft music playing on the sound system.
She sucked in a breath and her eyes flew open.
“I know who it is,” she said. “I remember where I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The person trying to kill me. I’d seen him somewhere before. I recognized his hair. It was so perfect, every individual strand
in its place.”
“Where did you see him?” Mike asked.
“At the restaurant. He was in for dinner about a week ago.” She wracked her brain, trying to remember. “Thursday night. I
spoke with him.” She went pale. “Oh, God.”
“What?” Anderson asked.
She slumped down in her chair. “I told him everything he needed to know to kill me. We were talking about the restaurant and
he asked about the menu. I said that my cook designed it, but I went over it with him every Saturday morning.”
“Saturday morning,” Anderson said quietly. “He used that to time the explosion.”
“Oh, God.” She fought back the tears. “I gave him what he needed to kill my kitchen staff.”
Anderson’s facial features hardened. “You didn’t do this, Leona. He did. He set the explosion and pushed the button. He killed
those men, not you.”
“Mike, that poor woman. Her husband dead. Her child’s father.”
Mike Anderson slipped his arms around her and pulled her close. She burrowed her face into his chest and felt her body jerking
as she sobbed. She was a dear friend, and it hurt so much to see her in such pain. Leona was a strong woman, but he knew better
than most that everyone had their breaking points. As he held her close, he prayed that she hadn’t reached hers.
Mike Anderson.
Darvin smiled and pushed the paper aside, then took a drink from the glass of wine. Drops of blood ran down his arm onto the
table. One of the droplets merged with another on the smooth wood surface. He would have to clean the red splotches with disinfectant.
The kitchen table was no place for blood, even if it was his brother’s. He stared at his hands, covered with spatters and
streaks of dried and fresh blood. His session with Derek Swanson had taken almost three hours. That seemed long, even for
him. He wondered how long it had seemed to the grotesquely disfigured man in the chair. Probably like a year.
Good. He deserved it.
Darvin looked at the paper and read the name again. Mike Anderson. Yes, it was the one. He was sure of it. When his contact
at the phone company had called with the four names, he thought Anderson’s sounded familiar. Now he knew why. When he had researched
Leona Hewitt, the one aspect of her life that was in the public domain was her charity. Save Them was a nonprofit organization
with ties to Kenya. And Mike Anderson was an employee of that charity. The liaison to Kenya. Which would explain the call
on her phone that had originated in Germany. Anderson was on his way home.
Stay in Africa
, Darvin thought.
It’s much safer
.
The blood was beginning to crust over and having it on his skin was no longer a nice feeling. He set the empty wineglass on
the table and headed for the shower. Half an hour later he walked out the front door of his house with Mike Anderson’s address
in his pocket, courtesy of Leona’s Microsoft Outlook contact list. It was six-thirty. An hour into Washington, then time to
find Mike Anderson’s house. Lots of time for dinner. He settled into the driver’s seat, then turned to look at the house.
A simple-looking farmhouse from the exterior. Yet inside was part of a man, hovering close to death. Darvin hoped he wouldn’t
die before he took care of business in the city and returned. Round two would be fun.
He drove with the car on cruise, five miles an hour over the speed limit. Cops got suspicious when you drove exactly the posted
speed, and they pulled you over if you exceeded it by more than ten or fifteen. Five was perfect. Don’t weave and keep to
five over—they’ll never stop you. He glanced at the gun and knife sitting on the passenger’s seat. This was not one car they
wanted to stop anyway. Go have a donut and a coffee, finish your shift and head home to see your wife. There was a good chance
none of that would happen if they stopped him.
He skirted Alexandria on the 495, then cut north on the 295 into the city, paralleling the Anacostia River. At the end of
the park he backtracked slightly on the 50, then turned onto Dakota Avenue. He stopped at the Franciscan Monastery to check
where he had to turn. It was dusk and the street signs were difficult to read. He passed Sargent Road on purpose, but missed
the turn at Twelfth Street. He continued on another block and turned right on Eleventh, then doubled back two blocks to Sargent.
He squinted until he saw a couple of house numbers in the low light. From that he figured out which way to turn, then scanned
the street intently both ways before pulling out. He cruised at the speed limit past Mike Anderson’s house. The living-room
light was on and the shades were pulled tight. He drove two blocks farther, turned around and checked it out one more time.
If the lights were on, the chances were that Mike Anderson was home. And Leona Hewitt was most likely with him.
Darvin accelerated slightly after he passed the house. This would be so easy. But first he needed to eat. Never kill on an
empty stomach. It was a rule. His rule. There didn’t have to be a reason for it to be a rule. It just was. He smiled. What
a great business. No boss. No set hours. The only real downside was no benefits. And twenty-five to life if he ever got caught.
Leona watched Mike check his gun. It fit perfectly in his hand, just the right size so it didn’t look too large or too small.
The wood grip molded to his hand, the smooth curves fitting every crease in his time-worn palm. An untouched glass of whiskey
sat on the table next to him. When he was finished oiling the weapon and checking the action, he set it on the table and picked
up the glass. He took a small sip, then set it down.
“Nerves,” he said to Leona. “Helps calm them.”
“You? I’m surprised. Ex-cop and all. I thought this would be old hat to you.”
He managed a slight smile. “Never gets to that point. If it does, you get hurt or killed. Every cop will tell you that complacency
is dangerous.”
“So we sit here and wait?” she asked.
“We could check into a hotel if you want.”
“Is that necessary?”
Anderson shrugged. “I don’t know. Now that they know the guy trying to kill you is Derek Swanson’s relative, George Harvey
and his guys should be able to track him down in a reasonable length of time. Probably quicker than he can find us.”
“You think so?” She sounded worried.
“I hope so. No guarantees.” He held up the gun. “That’s what this is for.”
“They’re horrible things,” Leona said. “Guns.”
“Depends entirely upon which end is pointing at you.”
George Harvey gripped the phone like a vise, listening to the woman’s voice, and despising everything about it.
“I can’t release the information without checking with my superior, Detective.” There was a slight drawl in the singsong chatter.
“And there’s no way that will happen until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Even then, you may need a court order.”
“Please have your boss call me the moment she gets in,” he said civilly. “A woman’s life is at stake.”
“I’ll pass the information along. Whether she calls or not is up to her, Detective.”
“That’s not good enough. What’s her direct line?”
“You’ll have to go through the switchboard. We don’t give out direct lines.”
“What time do you open in the morning?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Please put a note on her desk that I’ll be calling at one minute after eight. I need a name and an address, and I need it
quickly.” Harvey’s face was red and his teeth clenched. He was struggling now to keep his cool.
“Her office is locked. I’ll put the note in her mail slot.”
“Listen to me.” His voice finally cracked and took on a menacing tone. “People are going to die if we don’t get this guy.
And if you read in the newspaper that two or more people were brutally murdered because we couldn’t get the necessary information
from the clerk who controlled the adoption records, you’ll know that person is you.”
“Well, I don’t see what else I can do.”
“Tape the damn message on your boss’s door. Stand in the foyer when she arrives and tell her she has to get me that name by
eight-fifteen. Don’t leave her side until she does it. That’s a good start.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
George Harvey slammed the phone back into its cradle. “Bitch,” he screamed at the phone, his emotions exploding. “You stupid,
fucking, pencil-pushing, bureaucratic bitch.”
Leona Hewitt and Mike Anderson were in danger. Of that, he was sure. He felt it, like cops always feel bad things that are
about to happen. The sixth sense they covet some days and hate on others. Whether their lives were in jeopardy tonight was
debatable. He didn’t know how quickly the killer would track Leona, but he suspected it would be fast. He briefly considered
pulling one of his men off a sanctioned stakeout, but nixed that thought. The man was needed where he was, and Leona was with
Mike Anderson, a resourceful ex-cop.
They should be okay for one night. He kept telling himself that, but it wasn’t working.