by Jeff Buick
“We are a couple of days from closing this deal and you tell me some bitch named Leona Hewitt is going to fuck everything up? I don’t think so.” Swanson stopped yelling for a moment, regained his composure, then said, “She needs to okay this. And quickly.”
“I’m doing what I can at the bank,” the voice said, “but this is her show. There’s nothing you can do right now but wait and hope she comes around.”
“Jesus Christ,” Swanson said, sinking into an arm chair, his shoulders sagging. “All right. Keep me in the loop.”
“Of course.”
Derek Swanson let the phone dangle from his hand as he sat in the silence of his living room. After a minute, the cordless phone started beeping. He pushed the end button and let it drop to the floor. Early evening sunlight filtered through the thick trees and shone in the west-facing windows, reflecting off the Swarovski crystal on a sofa table. The cut glass bent the light, fracturing it into a menagerie of color. Everything so ordered, each color separate from the others. No overlapping, no problems with one of the colors trying to overpower the rest. No color sticking their nose in another color’s business. Order and harmony, just as his business should be.
Something changed in the room. A shadow that shouldn’t be there. He turned and looked behind at the entrance from the dining room. A figure was moving from the other room toward him. He jerked around to face the other man as the light illuminated his facial features.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” he said, his voice a blend of fury and loathing.
“Not happy to see me?” Darvin moved forward at a steady pace.
“You arrogant little puke. Get the fuck out of my house right now,” Swanson yelled, jumping up off the chair. He started toward the other man, then stopped when he saw the gun.
Ten feet separated the two when Darvin finally stopped and stood in the center of the room. “Who is Leona Hewitt?”
“I want you out of my house. Right now.”
Darvin cocked his head slightly. “You don’t get it, Derek.
You answer to me now. You’re my bitch. And if I decide you’re a liability rather than an asset, I’ll kill you. And if you piss me off any more than I already am, I’ll torture your ass before I finally end your pathetic little life.” He motioned at the chair with the gun. “Sit down, or I’ll shoot you in the balls. I’ll castrate you with a bullet, you stupid bastard. Three seconds. Two. One.” He stopped counting as Derek Swanson sat in the chair.
“That’s better.” Darvin slowly looked about the room, taking in the décor. “Nice stuff,” he said, touching a vase. “This looks likes something from the Qing dynasty, back when Emperor Kangxi controlled China. This is a museum-quality piece. It must have cost you a few dollars.”
Swanson swallowed heavily. “It was expensive.”
Darvin grinned, a sadistic curl of the lips. “I should break it. What do you think?” He hoisted the vase in his hand and held it out in front of him. “Won’t be worth much if I drop it.”
Swanson’s throat was dry. “No, it won’t.”
Darvin glanced at the sofa table and something caught his eye. He set the near-priceless porcelain down and picked up one of the picture frames. Inside was a photo of an elderly man and woman. “Your parents?”
Swanson nodded, glad to have the art back on the table. “Yes, those are my parents.”
“Nice-looking couple.”
Swanson didn’t know what to say. The killer was all over the map, no sense to what he was doing or his questions. “Thanks.”
“What did your father do? For a career, I mean. He must have done something to buy you all of this.”
“I bought this myself,” Swanson snapped, immediately wishing he hadn’t used a harsh tone. Darvin’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t speak. Finally, Swanson said, “Dad was an investment banker. He made a good living. He provided very well for my mother and I.”
“Ahh, I see. An investment banker. Big money in that profession. A lot of stress, though. Working on Wall Street and all that.”
“I suppose.”
Darvin set the photo back on the table and took a couple of steps toward Swanson. “I don’t like you, Derek. Never have. You use people. You’re a condescending prick. You haven’t changed the slightest since I killed that union rep for you. Not one iota. I’m not sure you realize how badly I want to kill you. I don’t need much of a reason. But while this gig is still on the go, you’re worth more to me alive than dead. So, for right now . . .” He let the sentence tail off as he sat on the arm of the couch. “Now if seems we have a bitch who is sticking her nose in things that she should leave alone. Who is Leona Hewitt, and why is she fucking everything up?”
Derek Swanson stared into the killer’s eyes and for the first time felt total fear. Darvin had always irritated him, maybe even scared him a bit, but this was different. There was no emotion in the killer’s gaze—the eyes were dead. “She works for DC Trust. She’s the person assigned to our income trust file.”
“And she’s a problem?”
“I have a source at the bank. They phoned and told me that she’s not ready to okay the deal.”
“And what does that mean?”
“We could lose regulatory approval and the conversion would die.”
“And we would lose all that money from the increase in the share prices.”
Swanson caught the use of we rather than you, but ignored it. “Yes.”
“Then Leona Hewitt is a problem. Perhaps she’s a problem that should be removed.”
“You’ve killed enough people.”
“Apparently not,” Darvin said sarcastically. “You keep coming up with new glitches in what appeared to be a very good idea. Glitches that need my attention.”
“Killing Leona Hewitt is not going to solve anything.”
“Nor is leaving her alive. She’s obviously a stumbling block.”
“Look, this has gone far enough. I’ll give you some money. I want you to go away.”
Darvin’s eyes flashed with anger. He stood up and walked toward Swanson, chambering a round in the pistol. “I don’t want to go away, Derek,” he said, drawling out the name. “I’m having too much fun. The money is almost secondary at this point.” He reached the chair. “Almost.” He raised the gun so it was pointing at Swanson’s head.
“Open your mouth.”
Swanson slowly opened his mouth and felt the cold metal against the back of his throat as the killer rammed the gun in and pushed.
“Don’t ever defend her again, Derek. She’s a useless bitch who is standing between us and a lot of money.” He twisted the gun slightly and Swanson grimaced in pain. “You have no idea how badly I want to kill you. I should, simply to show you how easy it would be.” His face was only inches from Swanson’s, his eyes locked in and feeding on the fear in the other man’s eyes. A minute passed with neither man moving an inch. Finally, Darvin said, “But that would really screw things up. End the quest for our fifty million.”
He extracted the gun from Swanson’s mouth. “Did you catch that? Our fifty million?”
Derek Swanson nodded, his throat too dry to speak.
“You have a partner now, Derek. That’s how it works. You handle the legal end of things, like the stock exchange and the bank, and I take care of any problems that pop up.
Like Leona Hewitt.”
Swanson’s voice was a mere whisper. “You can’t keep killing people associated with this or someone is going to catch on.”
“Then what?” Darvin asked, moving back a few feet and sitting on an oversize ottoman. “Who will they come looking for? Not me. You. That’s who will be on the front line. You. They’ll suspect you of murder. And what can you tell them? That you hired some guy named Darvin to kill a union rep four years ago, then asked him to take care of Reginald Morgan. But you never told him to kill Senator Claire Buxton or Leona Hewitt. Pretty weak, don’t you think? And the moment you open your mouth, they’ve got you for murder. Pre
meditated murder. And a US senator at that. You’d be lucky to escape with consecutive life sentences. My guess is that they’d put you in the chair and fry you.” His eyes reflected light from the living-room window, and for a moment they came alive. “Is that what you want, Derek?”
“No.”
“Then stop being such a wet dishrag. Get with the program. We’re in this together and we’ll reap the profits together. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Now what can you tell me about Leona Hewitt?”
“I don’t know the woman. I’d never heard her name until she was handed the file.”
“That’s okay.” Darvin rose from the foot stool. “I have my resources. I’ll find her easily enough.”
He walked to the entrance and slipped the pistol in his waistband. He pulled his shirt down over the handle and said, “You know, you should be careful about that source in the bank. You can get in a lot of trouble these days for insider trading.”
He walked through the doorway and left the house.
33
A ceiling fan turned slowly, moving little to no air. Flies buzzed about and the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee clung to the silence that enveloped the room. The officer working the desk occasionally turned a page and the sound carried through the dead air. Someone shuffled their feet on the gritty tile floor and all eyes turned.
Kubala sat on the wooden bench without moving. Two hours and counting. And three of the other six people in the room had arrived before him. How much longer? And when they finally called him in, what would they say? He had already filed the missing person report, so they knew why he was here. But did they care? He doubted it.
A short man in a crisply pressed uniform made his way to the gate that separated the visitors from the working portion of the police station. He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand.
“Kubala Kantu?”
“Yes,” Kubala said, standing. “I am Kubala.”
“Come.”
He held open the gate and Kubala passed through, catching a quick glimpse of the rest of the people still waiting. The look was the same: Why are you being called out of order? It’s our turn. No one said a word. He followed the short man down a long hall, past numerous painted wooden doors, all of them shut. They reached the first open door and he pointed into the room. Kubala entered. Inside were two uniformed police officers, standing and talking. Both were armed with pistols. They turned to face him as he entered.
“Sit, please, Mr. Kantu,” one of the men said. The short officer closed the door behind Kubala.
“Would you like something to drink?” the other officer asked.
“Water, please.” Kubala eased himself into one of the hard-back chairs.
The cop departed through the door Kubala had come in and was back in thirty seconds with an unopened bottle of spring water. He handed it across. The water was cold and the outside of the bottle was sweating.
Both officers sat opposite him at the table and the one who had gone for the water opened a light gray file folder that rested on the scarred wooden surface. He perused the contents for a minute, then closed the file and leaned forward.
“You filed a most interesting missing-person report,” he said. His words came out slightly nasal, probably a result of numerous broken noses from years spent in the boxing ring. “Mike Anderson is a friend of yours.”
“We work for the same charitable organization.”
“Save Them,” the officer said, the name fresh in his mind from reading the file. “What is it?”
“We work with the park rangers in Samburu to protect the elephants.”
“Worthy cause,” the other man said. His voice had an accent. English. “So that is why you are filing the report? Because you know this Mike Anderson from work?”
“Yes. I don’t think he knows anyone else in Kenya, so if I wasn’t to make the report, I’m not sure who would.”
“And he’s been missing for eleven days’since July twenty-first?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” The officer opened the file and flipped through a couple of pages. “What did Mr. Anderson do for the charity?”
“He brought money into Kenya from the United States. US dollars from fundraising events.”
The policeman raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about this money?”
“That it was his job to bring it into Africa. I don’t know what he did with it once it arrived.”
“You never saw the money?” the man asked, surprised.
“The only money I saw was what I received every month for my wages. But I did see the results of what happened when the money made it to Samburu. Part of it was used to expand the protection for the elephants, and the rest was used to improve the villages near the game preserve. We built a hospital and a school with the money.”
“Did Mr. Anderson carry cash with him?”
“No. Not that I am aware.”
Miss Leona was right, he thought as they grilled him. They wanted the money. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him if the man he was speaking to was the one who had orchestrated the kidnapping. The man who knew exactly where Mike Anderson was being held, and had the power to release him.
“We’ll be in touch if we need anything further,” the policeman said, rising. “Please leave your contact numbers in Nairobi and Samburu with my associate.” The interview had taken over an hour and they had not touched on where Mike Anderson could be or what might have happened to him. Not once.
Kubala rose from his chair as well. “I didn’t catch your name, sir,” he said to the officer who had asked most of the questions.
“That’s because I never told you.” The man walked to the door, then stopped and turned. “I’m Inspector Rack-isha.” He smiled, the white of his teeth in contrast to his black skin. “Now you know.”
Kubala followed the police inspector out of the small room. By the time he reached the hallway, the policeman had disappeared through one of the many doors on either side. Kubala made sure the inspector’s aide had his contact information, then left the station and stood on the street corner, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. It felt good. He needed to find a phone that could call overseas and inform Leona Hewitt of his meeting with the inspector—a meeting that had convinced him that someone in the police department had Mike Anderson and was holding him in hopes of a large payday. He hurried down the street, unaware of the dark Mercedes with tinted windows passing him in the traffic.
Bawata Rackisha sat in the backseat of the Mercedes and gave Kubala a perfunctory glance as his driver drove past him on the busy street. The man had been honest and to the point. That was good. What was even better was that they now had a conduit to the money. He wanted to check with Anderson and see if Kubala Kantu was as reliable and honest as he appeared.
The American Embassy slid past on the right side of the road. For Mike Anderson it was so close, yet so far away. They passed the National Archives and turned onto Latema Road for six blocks, then onto Ngariama. Both streets were a collection of three- and four-story buildings in varying stages of disrepair. His driver pulled up in front of a disheveled stone building with no number. Rackisha walked slowly across the sidewalk, looking both ways to see if anyone was watching. There were only a handful of people on the street and none looked his way. The less they saw, the healthier for them. The door opened as he reached it. Inside was a serious-looking cop in plainclothes, an Uzi submachine gun slung over his shoulder.
Rackisha made his way to Anderson’s cell and the jailer twisted the key in the lock. The door groaned as it swung open. The stench of feces and urine hit the inspector immediately. He almost gagged, but entered the room anyway. Inside it was dark, but he could make out a figure crouched in the corner.
“We may be making progress in getting you out of here,” the inspector said.
“Good. The sooner the better. I’m getting tired of eating bugs.” Anderson’s voice was still strong. He didn’t rise to gree
t his visitor.
“Do you know a man named Kubala?”
“Yes.”
“What is his full name?”
Mike dragged himself up off the cold stone floor and walked stiffly over to Rackisha. “I’m reluctant to say. I don’t want to get him in any trouble.”
“Loyal to your friends. That’s a good trait in a person. But I already know this man’s last name and how to contact him. He came into the police station today and filed a missing person report on you. I want to make sure he’s legitimate.”
Mike pondered the request. There was no upside to refusing to answer, but probably a huge downside. “Kantu. Kubala Kantu. He works for the same charity that I’m with.”
Rackisha nodded. “So he said. I think maybe this man can help us. What do you think?”
“I’ve told you, no one can access the money in the bank. That includes Kubala.”
Rackisha’s face contorted with anger. “This is getting very frustrating. I’m almost ready to end our arrangement.”
Reading what the inspector was saying was simple. Without a reasonable ransom, Mike Anderson was a dead man. Killed and dumped in a shallow grave somewhere outside the city. Not difficult to do. Easy, in fact.
“Maybe there is something Kubala can do for us,” Mike said, scratching at a spot on his arm were a mite had burrowed under his skin. “But I need to speak with him.”
“Impossible.”
Mike shook his head. “Then I can’t help you get any money.”
Rackisha studied the American. He was in total disarray, filthy with a thick growth of dirty facial hair. Yet his eyes still burned with life. The man’s spirit wasn’t broken. Not even close.
“What good will it do for you to meet with your friend?”
“There may be a stash of money outside the bank, but I need Kubala to go for it.”
“My men and I can retrieve it,” Rackisha said.
“No, Kubala is necessary. I need him.”
Rackisha hesitated for a moment, then said, “How much money?”
“Seventy-five thousand US dollars.”
Again, the hesitation. “You are sure of this?”
