From Cape Town with Love (28 page)

“I couldn't eat if I wanted to.”

Finally, Marsha looked at me. “If you want to chase down your friend Spider or Umbuso Izulu, you better eat, Tennyson.” She pulled out a carton of eggs.

I sighed. If I wanted her to talk, I had to do it her way.

I moved closer, taking a seat at her dinette table. When she set down a glass of orange juice, I took a sip. It seemed to singe my stomach, so I pushed it away.

Marsha's motion in the kitchen was exquisitely precise, the same quality she brought into bed with her—every movement calculated, down to flicks of her wrist to crack the eggs. She had physical training I'd been too busy fucking her to notice.

“Okay,” I said. “I'm listening.”

“Your dad was right. The Kingdom isn't known for kidnapping in the States,” Marsha said. “But in South Africa and Zimbabwe, kidnapping is one of their biggest businesses. They bully rich families into keeping quiet, so it stays out of the press. Nandi's kidnapping is straight out of their playbook.”

“Do the victims go home?”

“Most of them,” she said. “But not always. The way they convince families not to call the police is by making an example of the ones who do.”

The smell of cooking eggs made my stomach cinch.

“Is Nandi dead?” I said.

“The family will know within twenty-four hours, Ten. That's their typical window after an abduction. So we need to know if Sofia Maitlin has a new ransom demand. And proof of life.”

“Can't the FBI tell you that?”

“I'm not FBI,” Marsha said. “There are serious limits to what I am allowed to do inside the United States. Despite what you see in movies, we don't get to do whatever we want.”

“What about Malibu?” I said, remembering the cameras on the rooftop that had made me think she was a cop. “You're watching somebody.”

“Touché,” she said. “That's one of the things I can't talk about.” I ignored my flash of irritation. “If I can get the new ransom demands or proof of life . . . then what?”

“Then it's worth the risk. You try to find Umbuso Izulu. Learn what you can, fast. But not by yourself.”

“Who's backing me up?”

Marsha brought me a steaming plate of scrambled eggs and set it on the table.

“You're in luck,” she said. “I am.”

Marsha sat astride me in the chair, hooking her legs across the armrests. Her crotch settled against mine like a missing puzzle piece.

I didn't touch her, pulling my face back. “You crossed the line, listening to my calls.” I would have to be careful with every word on my phones, even if Marsha promised to stop listening.

“Let me make it up to you.”

My palms took matters in their own hands, pressing to her buttocks, fingers clutching rounded flesh tight. She wasn't wearing underwear beneath her T-shirt. Marsha slid herself across my crotch, and my body wanted to let bygones be bygones.

Marsha nuzzled the spot on my neck where her mouth had left me raw. I flinched, but blood surged to my groin. My pants were so thin that her skin felt naked, and I had plenty of room to grow. Her body seemed to clasp at me through the fabric.

While she kissed me, Marsha's hand found its way inside my pants, and the magnitude of the pleasure from her warm fingers rocked me, a mighty current.

“We don't have time,” I said.

“This won't take long.”

Marsha slid to the floor and knelt between my legs. She took me into her mouth, and my legs stiffened into a V. I gazed up at her ceiling, my eyes fixed wide open. I felt liquified, overrun with sensation. I groaned, my battle against my body already lost.

Marsha's mouth was possessed.

I clutched at her table as my hot juices gathered, boiling. My plate of eggs fell to the floor.

I screamed when I came.

I'd been waiting to scream all day.

I had to reach Maitlin, or I would lose my mind. Was Nandi still alive?

I never had Maitlin's cell number, and the FBI was all over her phone anyway, so there was no way to call her directly. Maitlin told me she'd borrowed a phone to call me—and I knew there was no way in hell that her husband, Alec, would have helped her reach me. That left one obvious choice, and luckily, my agent, Len, had the number I needed on his speed dial.

It pays to have good representation.

No one answered, but I left a message. When my return call came, I mumbled thanks to whichever deities had lent a hand.

“I'm not comfortable with this,” Rachel Wentz said when she called me back. Her voice had aged ten years. Like Maitlin, she sounded like she was hiding so she wouldn't be overheard. “I'm returning your call as a courtesy, but you can't talk to Sofia. I'm sorry.”

“Rachel, I just need to know if she's talked to Nandi,” I said. “Have they called?”

The line was silent so long, I wondered if she'd hung up on me.

“You can't picture what she's going through,” Wentz said. “I've never seen her like this—even after her parents died. Sophie and I don't
blame you, no matter what anybody says—you and Roman both said to call the police. But if the FBI knew I was talking to you like this, they'd put me
under
Guantanamo Bay. They could not have been clearer about the bad shit that will happen if we discuss this case—especially with you.”

“They're trying to scare you,” I said.

“It's working. Listen, I had all brothers, we grew up in Queens, I've flipped off cops all my life. These guys are making me piss myself.” Pause. “I can't discuss the call with you.”

I sat up ramrod straight. “They called?”

“And I can't discuss anything Sofia said to Nandi.” Another pause. “An hour ago.”

I sank against Marsha's sofa cushion, my strength sapped from a wave of relief. I wrote down
TIME OF CALL:
10:30
A.M.

If Marsha's people were bugging my phone, she would hear it herself soon:
She's alive,
I mouthed to Marsha. I didn't trust her, but I didn't think I had a choice.

Marsha pumped her fist and started texting someone on her BlackBerry. I'd given up asking who she was communicating with. Whoever it was, I hoped it was the damn cavalry. I would help her shred the Constitution to pieces to bring Nandi home.

“I'm working a lead on the kidnappers,” I told Rachel Wentz.

“I swear to God, I am not hearing this . . . ,” she said.

“We may be looking for a gang called Umbuso Izulu, originally from South Africa. I need to find out if Sofia has had contact with this gang. If there's any chance they might have infiltrated her entourage.”

“A South African gang? She would have mentioned something like that. And I told you, she can't talk to you—”

A rustling sound came, a tussle for the phone.
Please let Sofia be standing right there . . .
For the first time in memory, a prayer came true, like a genie's wish.

“Ten?” Sofia's voice said, hushed. “It's me. What are you asking about?”

“How did Nandi sound?” I diverted from my interview; I had to know.

Sofia sniffed. “Crying, mostly. She knows something is wrong. She
wants to come home, like you said.” Her voice was a shadow. “But she's alive.”

“That's right. She's alive.”

“Just a minute,” Sofia said, an urgent whisper.

For thirty seconds, I was in a wireless, soundless stasis. As the seconds ticked by, I cursed myself for spending so much time on Nandi. I needed to ask her about Umbuso Izulu.

“What?” Marsha said, waiting.

“I'm on hold.”

“Shit,” Marsha muttered. “Like she's got more important things to do right now.”

When Maitlin came back, I told her what I'd learned about Kingdom of Heaven and the knife-fighting technique. Her breathing quickened.

“Have you heard of them?” I said.

“I . . . no,” she said. “Kingdom of Heaven?”

“They're also known as Umbuso Izulu. They specialize in kidnapping in South Africa, but they hadn't been doing it here. That's why nobody put it together.”

“I've never . . . had any contact with anyone like that.”

The way she paused between her words made my stomach knot. If Maitlin was hiding something, the case could fall apart.

“Sofia . . . ,” I said, the way an older brother would. “What aren't you telling me?”

She exhaled loudly, and I could almost see her wriggling. “No, I . . . I'm just scared and tired and . . . Please, you can't jeopardize the exchange. They say they'll give her back tomorrow night. Don't do anything without letting me know.”

“Where's the exchange? What time tomorrow night?”

“I can't talk about this, Tennyson! They're telling me you might have been involved.”

“That's bullshit, and they know it,” I said. “If I was a suspect, I wouldn't be walking around free. Sofia, you have to let me know if there are any major breaks.”

She sighed. “It's ten o'clock tomorrow night, and that's all I can say. If there's an
emergency,
call me on Rachel's phone.”

Another exchange in the dark. Déjà vu fluttered through my stomach.

“Sofia, if you remember anything about criminals in South Africa or African gangsters here—no matter how trivial it seems—tell the FBI. Tell them now, before it's too late.”

“I just want my baby home,” Maitlin said, sounding childlike suddenly. “He said if we bring his money, he'll give her back. He said everything will be fine. He promised.”

I ground my teeth. “Sofia—”

That was all I had the chance to say before Rachel Wentz convinced Sofia Maitlin to hang up. Maybe Maitlin had sounded too upset. Neither of them wished me good-bye.

“Nicely done,” Marsha said, impressed. She rubbed my shoulders.

“She's in denial,” I said. “Or she's hiding something.”

“Yeah, no kidding, lover,” Marsha said. “Who isn't?”

Knowing that I had more than twenty-four hours before the scheduled exchange gave me breathing room I hadn't felt in days. Despite what I'd told Maitlin, I knew that Nandi's kidnappers were still holding out in the hope of getting paid, or Nandi wouldn't still be alive.

They don't want to kill her.
It seemed more apparent all the time. Or, maybe Maitlin had passed her denial on to me. I didn't care which it was. I was glad to feel better.

“I hope that Glock in your pants isn't registered to you,” Marsha said.

“Guilty,” I said. “It's the first weapon I could grab.”

Marsha shook her head, marveling at such an amateur mistake. “Leave it here.”

When I laid my Glock on her table, Marsha stared down at it as if it were an old, smelly fish. “I don't like toy guns,” she said. “But if nines float your boat, I can make you smile.”

She led me to her bathroom. There, she pulled away the framed Renoir print of a woman sitting at a piano, revealing a wall safe. She spun the combination lock rapidly, with practiced fingers. The space in the safe was much bigger than it should have been; the safe wasn't wide, but it was deep. Marsha pulled out a long black tray and laid it across her closed toilet seat.

Six handguns lay side by side, nestled in custom-fitted foam. Other compartments were home to silencers and laser optic sights. I made a mental note never to piss Marsha off.

Marsha's buttocks peeked out again as she bent over her gun stash, her legs spread wide.

I would be carrying that screen saver in my head for a while.
Damn,
she was sexy.

The first gun I noticed was a Beretta, blue steel with a plastic grip. It was eight and a half inches long, with a five-inch barrel.

“It's loaded, sixteen rounds,” Marsha said, following my eyes. “But let's not plan on making the news. Shooting is a last resort.”

Marsha's philosophy was miles from Roman's, so I took the Beretta. It weighed about two and a half pounds. “I'll take good care of her,” I said.

“You always do,” Marsha said.

“Yeah, mon, you know it, baby,” Clarence Love said.

I finally had the perfect partner. My new wife and I left for work.

Three calls yielded a restaurant employee who knew Diaspora Beat was playing a lunch gig at Bamboo Restaurant, near Baldwin Hills. As my car raced on the 10 freeway toward Bamboo, we agreed on a simple cover story: I was a struggling singer, and she was my wife—accountant by day, manager by night. We had moved to L.A. two months before from Seattle, were living way out in the San Gabriel Valley, and I was still learning my way around the club circuit.

“Love?” she said. “Did you just make that name up?”

“Easy to remember,” I said, shrugging. “I'm sure somebody in Jamaica has that name.”

She shook her head. “Research is a good thing in covert operations, incidentally. But fine, I'll be Octavia Love.”

“Octavia?”

“I knew someone from Jamaica named Octavia. Like you said, easy
to remember. My favorite author is Octavia E. Butler. The science fiction writer.”

That's ONE thing I know about you,
I thought. Marsha's idea of sharing.

“Let's not engage Spider if he's here,” I said. I had learned my lesson from Roman, and then some: Partners have to share a mind.

“Check. We'll keep a low profile and follow him.” She paused. “In a . . . Corvette.”

“Hey, in L.A., a Corvette is like a Toyota Corolla. Don't even trip.” Marsha smiled as I hit the gas to zip into a gap in the traffic flow to open road.

Bamboo was a nondescript restaurant on the southern side of the Baldwin Hills boundary. No one seemed to notice us when we walked in. Somewhere in the rear, the band was already playing. The thought of running into Spider gave me an adrenaline surge.