Delicate Chaos

by Jeff Buick

  “I would imagine you knew Mr. Morgan quite well.”

  “We interacted almost daily for a number of years. We discussed issues relevant to running the company. I saw him at the office mostly, but we attended functions together as well. Golf tournaments, fundraising dinners, that sort of thing.”

  “It must have been quite a shock when he disappeared from the cruise ship.”

  “Yes. It was unbelievable. It still is.”

  “Have you assumed his duties at the office?”

  “Our job descriptions always overlapped, so it was only natural for me to take on the additional workload.”

  “Was Mr. Morgan well liked?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question,” Swanson said, scratching his chin.

  “Do you know anyone who would want Mr. Morgan dead?”

  Swanson cracked a small smile and slowly shook his head. “Well, there’s no misunderstanding that question.” He shifted slightly in the chair. “Reggie was a fine man. He spent a lot of his life, and his money, giving back to the community. He was philanthropic on many levels. He was honest in his business life and believed a good deal was one where both parties felt they had been treated fairly. When you uphold those sort of principles in your business and family life, you don’t make people mad. So, to answer your question, no, I didn’t know anyone who would want him dead.” Swanson looked back and forth between the two cops. “I thought Reggie’s death was an accident.”

  “Yes, that’s the official result of the investigation by both the Mexican police and the FBI,” said Marion Jeffries, speaking for the first time.

  “You don’t believe it?” Swanson asked her.

  “It seems strange that a man, an elderly man at that, would fall over a railing on a perfectly calm evening. He was hardly at the age where foolish drunken acts result in accidents like this one.”

  “No, hardly. I can’t see Reggie climbing on the railing.”

  “So it makes you wonder.” Jeffries pursed her lips, then said, “I understand Coal-Balt was in the midst of a financial restructuring.”

  “Not really a restructuring,” Swanson answered. “We were converting to an income trust.”

  “Were you and Mr. Morgan on the same page about this business move?”

  Swanson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We had different opinions on some of the details, but ultimately we both wanted the same thing.”

  “And that was . . .”

  “A financially solid company. By converting to an income trust we would substantially raise the value of our common shares, and that would inflate the company’s book value.”

  “I’m just a dumb cop when it comes to that sort of stuff,”

  Harvey said. “What does that mean?”

  “The higher your common shares are pegged on the stock exchange, the more financial clout the company has.

  It would allow us to pay out our investors and have additional money left over to upgrade our facilities, strengthen our pension plan, and possibly even expand.”

  “That’s pretty simple,” Harvey said.

  “It’s not rocket science.”

  “And this conversion—it’s finished? In the bag, so to speak?” Marion Jeffries said.

  He shook his head. “Not yet. But it should be in about a week or so.”

  “What effect will that have on you personally?” Jeffries asked.

  “My net worth would increase due to the rise in the share values.”

  “Considerably?”

  “Considerably.”

  “What could derail it?”

  “You mean keep the conversion from happening?” he asked, and she nodded. “Lack of regulatory approval from the stock exchange, but that’s already done. That’s the big one. There’s a handful of smaller things that might have an effect, but nothing that could unilaterally kill the proposal.”

  “Things like proposed legislation requiring coal-burning power plants to upgrade their equipment?”

  Swanson’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, that could have an effect. It wouldn’t be enough to cause the deal to falter or fail.”

  A brief silence settled on the room, and Swanson used his right forefinger to pull back his shirtsleeve and look at his watch.

  “I’m out of time,” he announced, rising from the chair.

  “Thank you for inviting us in,” George Harvey said.

  They walked to the door and left with a simple good-bye. Neither party told the other to have a nice day. Derek Swanson closed the door and stood in the foyer, unmoving. What had just happened was not good. Not good at all. The woman, Marion Jeffries, was from Utah. The printing on her badge was small, but readable. Salt Lake City. Homicide.

  He cursed Darvin under his breath. The stupid little bastard had blown this thing wide open. There was no reason for him to kill Claire Buxton. But he had. And now they had to deal with the repercussions. Including police from Washington DC and Utah showing up at his door. He was halfway to the garage when another thought hit him. There was no reason for a police detective from DC to be at his door. New York, because of the tie in to the stock exchange. Florida, as that was where the cruise ship docked. West Virginia, for obvious reasons. But Washington DC? The only tie that Coal-Balt had to the nation’s capitol was the bank. DC Trust.

  Leona Hewitt.

  His legs almost gave out on him as the full impact hit him. The only possible way those two cops arrived together on his doorstep was if Leona Hewitt had pieced this together and called them. She was the common link. And Darvin, that demented little prick, was going after her. If he managed to find her and kill her, the police would be back. And they would have a warrant.

  Swanson reached the great room and picked up the cordless telephone. Then he slowly set it down. What if they were monitoring his phone line? The same thing with his cell and his office number. He’d have to call Darvin from a pay phone. And then, he’d better be damn sure no one was watching him. He ran his hands through his hair. They were shaking almost uncontrollably.

  His life was unraveling. And quickly.

  37

  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?”

  “Y
eah, 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.

  38

  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 an
d 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.

  39

  “Has he made any outgoing phone calls?” George Harvey asked the technician working the electronic surveillance on Derek Swanson’s house and office.