by Jeff Buick
“A few from the office, none from home. I’ll print you a list.”
Harvey waited a minute, then took the paper from the tech. “Thanks,” he said, heading back to his corner office where Marion Jeffries waited. By the time he arrived, the detective knew they had drawn blanks on their surveillance.
“Anything?” the Salt Lake City homicide detective asked.
He shook his head. “Swanson made no calls from home, and very few from his office phone. Fewer still from his cell phone. Almost like he was trying to stay off the line.”
“Think he suspects we’re watching?”
Harvey shrugged. “Who knows. The guy isn’t dumb. He’s probably being careful.”
“Think he’s involved?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Harvey said. “I think he’s in this up to his asshole. He didn’t kill them, but his fingerprints are all over the murders. What about you? What do you think?”
“He’s the motivation behind it. Has a trigger man of some sort.”
“Think he’ll go after Leona Hewitt?” Harvey asked.
Jeffries shook her head. “No. He knows we’re watching him. She’s safe.”
“I agree.” He consulted his notes, a compilation of what his department, working with Jeffries, had accumulated since Leona Hewitt had visited them four days ago. He recounted what they had to date. “Reginald Morgan disappears off Brilliance of the Seas. That means premeditation. Swanson had someone on the ship. We’ve pulled the passenger manifest, concentrating on late bookings. Swanson’s person will be one of the last to secure a cabin, and that narrows our search to a reasonable number. Somewhere around two hundred people.”
“That’s workable,” Jeffries said.
“Swanson knows that Morgan isn’t coming back, and that allows him to push ahead with the trust conversion without internal opposition. Then he runs into another problem. His lobbyist, Jack Dunn, is unable to convince enough of the decision makers to reject Senator Claire Buxton’s bill. It looks inevitable that it’ll pass. And that means Buxton has to go. Another call to his hatchet man.”
“Or woman,” Jeffries said. “You know us women these days. Nothing we can’t do.”
Harvey gave her a sour look, the kind only a man twice divorced can master. He rubbed his hand across his goatee. “That gives us some approximate dates for outgoing calls from Swanson’s phones.”
“You’ve pulled his phone logs?”
“Yesterday. I’ve got two people working them. He made a lot of calls, local and long distance, over the past few weeks. It’s going to take some time. This is a slow one.”
“Well, maybe we’ve got one clue from the crash in Salt Lake.”
“What?” Harvey asked.
“Our forensics found a bit of blood in the wreckage that doesn’t belong. Under the driver’s seat. The impact of the crash impaled Buxton on the steering column and she bled out directly below onto the floor mat. From the positioning of her body, there was no way it got there as a result of the accident. We checked it out. It’s not Claire Buxton’s or either of her kids’. We asked her husband for a sample, just in case, but it’s not his.”
“Under the seat? That’s weird.”
“Very. Makes you wonder how the hell that happens. Someone reaching for something and cuts himself?”
“Could be the killer,” Harvey said.
“Could be,” she agreed.
“The report said traces of hydrogen cyanide were found on the carpet. Once we found that we ran a tox screen on the bodies. Cyanide bonds to an enzyme called cytochrome, and once that happens, oxygen transfer is inhibited at the cellular level. We found traces of cyanide in Buxton and her son. There’s little doubt that the crash was a result of her reaction to the cyanide.”
“Dizziness, loss of consciousness.”
“Exactly. So the question that has to be asked is how does the van cabin fill with cyanide, yet leave no clue as to how it got there? No canister. No crushed glass from a vial. Nothing. Perhaps he grabbed the evidence.”
Marion Jeffries nodded. “That’s a legit line of thought.
If the blood is legit and not one of the kid’s friends or something like that, then our best guess is that whoever planted the gas was the first to arrive at the crash site.”
“Anyone see this person?” Harvey asked, leaning forward.
“The first man on the scene who came forward as a witness remembers another guy being there, but has no recollection of what he looks like. White and male, that’s it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s our killer.”
“Guy is first on the scene, then doesn’t hang around to make a witness statement. Makes you wonder.” He closed the file on his desk. “When are you heading back to Utah?”
“I fly out tomorrow morning.”
“When is your office going to release the results of Senator Buxton’s autopsy?”
“A few more days at least. We don’t want to stir the pot until we’ve exhausted every lead, like what we’ve got here in Washington. Once we’re sure there’s no upside to keeping her cause of death under wraps, we’ll hold a press conference.”
“That’s going to make the headlines,” Harvey said.
“Precisely why we don’t want to let it go public too quick. Everyone and their dog will have a smoking gun. High-profile cases always bring out the nutcases. What would be really nice is if the Derek Swanson angle worked and we nailed him and the person who planted the gas in the van. Then when we make the announcement, we’ve already got someone in custody.”
Harvey nodded emphatically. “We’ve got something to work with on this end. If there’s a trail, we’ll find it. And once we do, I’ll be on the phone. First thing.”
Jeffries smiled. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem. I think we all want to get this guy.”
“The killer or Swanson?”
“Both,” he said.
40
Leona sat at the bar, sipping a glass of red wine. Tyler poked his head out of the kitchen to see if she was still there, then stripped off his apron, poured himself a draught beer and came out to sit with her. It was after one and the last patrons had left the restaurant an hour earlier.
“Quite the night.” Leona set down her pen and closed the cash-out book. She pushed it and the function sheets for the weekend to the side.
“Fridays always are.” Tyler downed half the beer in one long draw. “Man, we got slammed about nine o’clock. I think the whole place ordered entrées in less than half an hour. Boozy was crashing on the grill. Janet came over from the salad line to help or he would have gone down.”
“You’d never have known it from out here,” she said. “Everyone left happy. Lots of compliments on the food tonight, especially the tuna feature.”
“We sold out by ten on that one,” Tyler said, grinning. “Thirty-six specials. At thirty-eight dollars. Told you tuna was the flavor of the week.”
“You know what they want.” She gave him a pat on his arm. “We make a good team. You think so?”
“Damn right,” he said with a lilt to his voice.
Leona reached for her wine, but her finger touched the stem and the glass wobbled, then crashed on the bar before she could grab it. It smashed, and shards of glass mixed with the spilled wine. Tyler leapt up and ran to the kitchen for a cloth.
“Damn it.” Leona picked the largest pieces of broken glass out of the wine as it slowly spread across the shiny wood. Tyler returned with a cloth and paper towels and they wiped up the spill. He wrapped the broken glass and paper towels in the cloth, disappeared through the kitchen doors and returned a minute later with a fresh glass of wine. He set it on the bar.
“No spilling this time,” he said.
“Promise—and thank you.” Leona took a drink and glanced at her watch. “Can you come in half an hour early tomorrow? There’s something I want to run past you.”
“Sure. Not tonight?”
“Nah, you enjoy a few beers and go home and get a solid night’
s sleep. I’ll see you at ten-thirty.”
“Sure.”
“Make sure the rest of the kitchen staff get in on that beer,” she said. “Keep track so I can subtract it from the day’s sales.”
“Thanks. Could be a few pints. I think the guys are pretty thirsty.”
“Thirty-six specials at thirty-eight dollars each. Plus an other two hundred entrées and wine and drinks. I think I can afford to get my kitchen staff drunk.”
“Well, in that case . . .”
“Good night.” She placed the almost-full wineglass on the table. She couldn’t help laughing at the fox-with-the-key-to-the-chicken-coop look on his face.
Outside it was muggy but still warm. The low-pressure weather front had dissipated, gone wherever they go, and normal temperatures were back. She walked the half block to where her car was parked in its underground stall. The parking structure was quiet, only a few cars left at the late hour. She hit the open button on the key fob and the parking lights blinked once. A movement to her right caught her eye and she turned quickly. Nothing. She stood a few feet from her car, concentrating on the line of concrete pillars fifty feet away. There was no sound, no motion to indicate anyone was hiding. She kept her eyes riveted on the area as she slowly edged toward her vehicle. When her hand touched the side of her car she looked down and grabbed the door handle and pulled. She swung through the open door, closed it and locked it, sliding the key in the ignition and turning. The motor caught and she shifted the car into gear. She glanced in her rearview mirror before backing up and screamed.
The man standing beside her car jumped back, startled at her yell. On his shirt was the insignia of the building above the parking lot. Clipped to his front pocket was an identity card with his photo.
Leona touched the button and the window silently slid out of sight. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You scared me.”
He gave her a half smile. “You scared me when you yelled. Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I thought I saw something moving behind those pillars.” She motioned to the long line of concrete posts. “I was a bit nervous and all of a sudden you were right beside my car.”
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He looked over to where Leona had indicated. “I’ll check it out. I’m doing my nightly rounds.”
“Sure.”
She rolled up her window and pulled out of the garage onto the deserted street. What was wrong with her? Spooked by her overactive imagination. Reginald Morgan’s disappearance and the death of the Senator from Utah may or may not be tied together. The police weren’t sure. They suspected, but had nothing more than that. Suspicions. She had to pull it together.
Her cell phone rang, startling her again. She pulled it from her hip holder with shaking hands and flipped it open. The incoming call was a mass of static, but through the wall of white noise was Kubala’s voice.
“I can hardly hear you.” She cranked on the wheel and pulled over to the side of the road. The static diminished a touch and she could make out his words with little difficulty.
“I have found Tuato’s car,” he said excitedly.
“What took you so long?” Leona asked, her tone inquisitive, not accusatory. “It’s Friday night. You called me two days ago.”
“He moved, Ms. Leona. I had to find his new house.”
“And you did?”
“Yes. This afternoon. It’s in a rough part of town. Very dangerous. I watched his house for a few hours until he arrived, about five hours ago. But getting to the car will not be easy. Tuato parks it behind his apartment building right by his window.”
“If it’s too dangerous don’t try. I’ll fly over tomorrow with the money.”
“No, Ms. Leona. It’s worse for you to come here, to Nairobi, with a large amount of money. It is very likely you would be killed. Do not try that, I beg of you. Let me see if the money is still under the seat.”
He was right. There was no upside to running directly into the fire. Her life would be in jeopardy the moment the plane’s wheels touched the runway.
“All right. But be careful, Kubala.”
“Yes, of course.”
“When will you try?”
“Maybe tonight, but it’s almost dawn here. Probably tomorrow night. I would have tried earlier, but there were homeless people sleeping a few feet away. Maybe they won’t be there tomorrow.”
“Call me. I want to know what’s happening.”
“I’ll call. Tomorrow.” The international line went dead.
Leona closed her phone and pulled away from the curb. She needed to get home and pour herself a glass of wine. One that she could drink without having to drive afterward. She was a banker, in Washington DC. How could so many things be happening all at once? Mike Anderson kidnapped by the police and in danger of being killed. Kubala skulking around a Nairobi slum waiting for an opportunity to grab eighty thousand dollars from a car. Eighty thousand dollars in Nairobi. Eighty dollars was enough to earn a knife in the ribs. Eighty thousand was beyond belief. Kubala was in great danger since he had signed on with the foundation. Someone killing everyone who opposed the Coal-Balt deal. Now, her own safety threatened.
She felt the car closing in on her, the panic building. There was no stopping it. She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt in the curb lane, opening the door and jumping out, almost into the path of an oncoming SUV. The headlights were right in her face, coming fast. The driver swerved sharply and laid on the horn, missing her by inches. Leona slammed the car door and ran to the sidewalk, grabbing a streetlight for support. She was sweating and her hands shook uncontrollably. For five minutes she stood immobile, breathing the night air, relaxing. She concentrated on soft music and friendly memories. Anything to drive away the massive surge of anxiety that accompanied her claustrophobia. Finally, when the shaking had stopped, she walked slowly back to her car and eased into the seat. The panic attack was over, the car no longer felt constricting. She took more time than necessary to start the car, fasten her seat belt, and adjust the mirrors. She shoulder checked and merged back into the threadbare traffic.
That glass of wine was looking better all the time.
41
“Fucker,” Darvin whispered under his breath.
He watched the security man check the other side of the parking structure. The beam from the flashlight poked behind the concrete pillars and cast long shadows across the smooth cement floor. After a couple of minutes the light abruptly disappeared. A second later Darvin heard the click of a fire door closing. The man was gone.
Leona Hewitt had dodged a bullet. Literally. His first choice had been to take her out in the parking garage and make it look like a carjacking. Easy enough to do. A bullet in the head, tire marks next to the body, and no car. But that opportunity had vanished the moment the security guard had walked onto the scene. He slid out from behind one of the posts and walked to the stairwell, taking a moment to hook the wire back into the surveillance camera he had previously disabled. He headed back to street level.
He was breathing a bit deeper after climbing the three flights of stairs. The door to M Street opened next to an alley and he ducked into the darkness and made his way toward the restaurant. Always good to have options. And while his second choice on how to kill Leona Hewitt was his favorite, it was also the riskiest. He reached the back side of Gin House and stopped, backing into a small alcove. The door from the rear of the restaurant to the alley was open, and two men in cook’s uniforms were sitting on the stoop smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. He recognized one of the men as Leona’s head chef, his blond-red hair and facial features highlighted by the glow from his cigarette. Their voices drifted across the lane, empty but for garbage bins and a few broken bottles. He settled in to wait.
It took forty minutes for the kitchen staff to finish their beer and lock up. Once he was sure the restaurant was deserted, he crossed the alley and jumped up on the metal Dumpster. A plastic conduit pipe ran up the side of the buil
ding, tight to the brick exterior. He slipped a penknife from his pocket and levered open one of the joints, exposing the thin wires inside. They were the main telephone feed to the building. Holding a small flashlight in his teeth, he selected the correct wire and snipped it. Then he slid the cover back in place, hopped off the garbage bin and slipped back into the shadows. Darvin had noticed the alarm the one time he had visited the restaurant, and from the control pad he suspected it was an older model without a radio frequency backup. The system was tied into the telephone lines and without the backup to alert the alarm response company or the police, simply cutting the phone line disabled it, giving him full access to the restaurant. He’d know soon enough whether he had guessed correctly. Fifteen minutes passed and there was no sign of the police. He slid out of the shadows and walked across the garbage-strewn alley to the door.
It was closing in on two o’clock when Darvin slipped a thin strip of tensile steel into the deadbolt lock and felt for the tumblers. After about thirty seconds the lock clicked open and he pulled on the door. It swung outward, revealing a small storage area. Immediately inside, on the right side of the doorjamb, was an alarm pad. It was armed, but not beeping. Cutting the telephone line had definitely disabled it.
The interior of the restaurant was almost entirely dark, lit by a solitary twenty-five-watt emergency light in the main eating area, and a few shards of ambient light filtering in from the front street. Darvin moved with caution through the smattering of tables and chairs and pushed open the door to the kitchen. It creaked with the slowness of the motion, the sound drifting through the silent space like a single note on a piano. Inside the kitchen was another emergency light, which lit the twenty-by-forty-foot room enough for Darvin to see what he was doing.
He concentrated on the ceiling, which was about sixteen feet above the tile floor. Numerous unlit lights hung down a few feet from the roof on thin wires, positioned to illuminate the work area for the kitchen staff. One of the lights was directly over the prep area, which had a metal hood that extended above the counter. He flipped a couple of light switches until he found the one that controlled that particular light, then turned it off and jumped up on the chopping board. He climbed onto the hood, stepping cautiously on the frame. It held his weight without buckling and raised him to a level where he could reach up and touch the light. He unscrewed the bulb and held it in his left hand while he withdrew a syringe from his right coat pocket. He pulled the plastic sheath off the needle with his teeth, then placed the tip against the metal base of the bulb and pushed. The sharp point pierced the thin metal and he continued to push until the tip of the needle was visible inside the glass. Then he thumbed the plunger and squirted the accelerant into the bulb. When the syringe was empty he withdrew the needle and rubbed the tiny hole with his index finger to seal it. He replaced the bulb and carefully stepped down off the hood onto the chopping block, and hopped down to the floor.
