His words touched her. “I appreciate that,” she said.
Satisfied that he’d diffused an uncomfortable scene over Manford Penny, he asked, “How’s your love life?”
“Why would I discuss that with you?”
“Just curious.”
“How’s your love life?”
“Nonexistent,” he said. “By the way, I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job at the embassy.”
“Oh? Why? What do you intend to do?”
Since he’d led to that obvious question he replied, “Find out what happened to Trevor in Nigeria and right the wrong.”
Their Caesar salads arrived in the nick of time.
“Nice salad,” Portland said.
“Yes, very nice,” Elizabeth said.
“So,” he said, “we were talking about your work at the law firm.”
She lowered her fork. “No, we weren’t,” she said. “We were talking about how you intend to right the wrong of Trevor’s death.”
Despite not wanting to spoil a quiet evening with her, he launched into what had transpired during his visit to Matthew Kelsey in Barrow-in-Furness. She listened intently. When he was finished he sat back and said, “That’s it. Trevor was shot to death by the Frenchman, Alain Fournier, who heads up SureSafe in the Niger Delta, and he did it on instructions from someone I have to assume is with your client XCAL.”
He expected a negative reaction from her for once again raising the contentious issue of Trevor’s murder, and braced himself for it. To his surprise, her expression reflected not anger but concern. She said, “I understand why you feel the need to do this, David. I truly do. You may not think that it weighs heavily on my mind, too, but it does, day and night.”
His readiness to defend himself was reduced to relief.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Liz. I know that it puts you in an awkward position considering your role as XCAL’s lead attorney.”
Her laugh was rueful. “You’ve always been good at understatement,” she said. “What I’d like to know is how far you’ve come in nailing down the who and why of Trevor’s death, and your plans to right this wrong, as you put it. Let’s say that this Frenchman, Fournier, did kill Trevor, and let’s say that he did it upon orders from someone with XCAL in Nigeria. Are you planning some sort of legal action?”
His answer was interrupted by the waiter, who took Portland’s order of a strip steak, medium rare, and Elizabeth’s choice of John Dory. When the waiter had departed, Portland said, “There’s nothing that can be done legally about it. From what I know the Nigerian legal system is broken beyond repair, like everything else in that country. But there’s another aspect of this that I haven’t mentioned.”
“Mind if I have another drink?” she said.
“Of course not.”
“You?”
“One’s enough.”
“You were saying?”
“I was saying that there’s another aspect of this. My friend Robert Brixton and I went to Virginia to meet with a man who’d moved here from Nigeria with his wife and two children. Brixton made contact with him on behalf of his pal and attorney, Mac Smith, who represents a client whose father got caught up in one of those Nigerian financial scams and ended up killing himself. This Nigerian—his name was Dimka, Ammon Dimka—knew a lot about the scams and how they work, and was about to go public with what he knew. Unfortunately, someone killed him and set his house on fire just before we arrived.”
“That’s a terrible story, David, but what does it have to do with Trevor’s death?”
“I don’t have a definitive answer to that, Liz, but there is a connection.” He went on to explain how SureSafe, the security company, provided protection for a warlord in the Niger Delta who controlled much of the money raised by the scams, and used a D.C.-based alleged “charity” to raise that money. “In other words,” he said, “everything seems to involve SureSafe.”
As though cued, the conversation changed to less weighty topics. They reminisced about their early days together, and laughter came easily. She told him about her father’s illness, and he expressed his sympathy. By the time they’d shared a dessert and had finished coffee, the relaxed atmosphere he’d hoped the evening would create was very much in evidence. Although he couldn’t read her mind and know what she was thinking, he was filled with loving thoughts to the extent that he wanted to hug and kiss her; it even crossed his mind to get down on one knee and propose marriage again.
They walked through the lobby and went outside, where a doorman hailed a taxi.
“Mind dropping me off?” he asked.
She hesitated before saying, “No.”
As they climbed into the cab, Cameron Chambers, who’d decided to have a drink at the Watergate after dinner, left his seat at the bar and watched their departure. From what he observed they seemed comfortable with each other, too comfortable as far as he was concerned. He returned to the bar and stewed for the next half hour over his drink.
As the cabbie drove, Elizabeth said, “I’m glad we did this, David. Aquarelle is expensive but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I can handle it. I’m just glad that we could enjoy an evening together.”
The cab stopped in front of Portland’s building.
“What’s on your agenda tomorrow?” she asked.
“Haven’t figured that out yet, Liz. I suppose I’d better start the process of leaving.”
“Leaving? London again?”
“No, Nigeria.”
“Nigeria? You’re going there?”
“I have to if I’m ever going to put Trevor to rest, really put him to rest. I’ll stay in touch before I go. Let’s do this again, huh? It’s great being with you.”
She had more she wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, she kissed him on the cheek and turned so he wouldn’t see a tear that had run down her cheek. He got out, watched the taxi pull away, and gave it a halfhearted wave as it disappeared around a corner.
“I love you, Elizabeth Sims,” he said aloud.
PART THREE
CHAPTER
36
WASHINGTON—VIRGINIA
Robert Brixton and Flo Combes had spent the evening at home, where she prepared a favorite of his, Welsh rarebit with bacon on English muffins, and a large green salad. Following dinner they flipped through channels on the television, catching up on what was going on in the world according to a variety of talking heads. Brixton eventually dozed in his chair, which prompted Flo to nudge him and suggest an early-to-bed evening. Brixton came alive the minute he was in bed and they enjoyed a spontaneous bout of lovemaking before turning off the lights.
Flo was up before the alarm went off the next morning. She was expecting a visit from an up-and-coming fashion designer from Los Angeles who was making the rounds of East Coast shops with the hope of persuading their owners to carry his designs. “He’s very cutting-edge,” she told Robert when he joined her at the kitchen table. “I’d be the first outlet in D.C. to carry his line.”
Brixton was as interested in women’s fashions as he was in home decorating and bird watching, but he feigned interest in what she said. He was immensely proud of what she’d accomplished in opening and managing the store, and lent a willing hand when it came to small construction projects and painting the walls. But the subtleties of what made for a winning design were lost on him. It was good that she knew.
“Busy day ahead?” she asked.
“Busy but dull. I’m back checking security clearances for the Justice Department. Not exciting, but it pays the rent. Any further thought about you going to L.A.?”
Flo had received an invitation the previous day to attend the Los Angeles Fashion Council’s weeklong fashion show, which would kick off in a few days.
“I’d really like to go,” she said. “It would give me a feeling of truly being involved in the fashion industry. Is it okay with you? I’ve already arranged for Cynthia to run the shop while I’m gone.”
“It’s fine with me as long as we repeat last night before you go.”
She smiled. “Count on it,” she said mischievously. She kissed him good-bye. “Tonight’s a late night at the shop.”
“Maybe I’ll swing by and bring you some dinner.”
“That’d be sweet,” she said. “Bye.”
He spent the morning querying neighbors of a job applicant in search of something nefarious in his background but as usual came up with nothing. He had visions when he signed on with Justice of uncovering and exposing a foreign mole seeking to worm his way into a sensitive position with the U.S. government, but that was what fantasies were made of. Everyone he investigated came up squeaky clean, which wasn’t a surprise. You’d have to be really stupid to apply for a sensitive government position with your neighbors knowing that you’re a devout Communist or member of ISIL.
After interviewing neighbors he decided to stop in a neighborhood bar and grill for lunch. He’d just ordered when his cell phone sounded.
“Mr. Brixton?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Brixton, this is Abiola Dimka.”
Hearing her voice and her name stunned him. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Dimka,” he said. “I—I’m surprised to be hearing from you. I’m so sorry for your loss and—how are you?” He knew after he’d said it that it was a stupid thing to ask of a woman whose husband and the father of her children had just been murdered. How are you? Oh, I’m terrific, happy as can be.
She said, “Thank you.”
“Yeah, I mean it. Are you—well, are you okay, your kids and all?”
“Mr. Brixton, I’d like to meet with you.”
He hadn’t expected that.
“Sure. I intended to contact you after—well, after some time had passed.”
“I understand.”
“Where are you and the children living?”
“Ammon’s employer has given us a house he built that he intends to sell. He’s a fine man.”
“He sounds it. Where and when would you like to meet?”
“Whenever it is convenient for you.”
“I’m free this afternoon,” he said.
“Can you come here?”
“Anywhere you say.”
She gave him the address of her temporary quarters and they agreed to meet in two hours.
When the call was completed he stared at the phone. Her call had come out of the blue, and he tried to conjure a reason for it. Since Dimka’s death he’d assumed that his wife would blame him for having enticed her husband into the situation that led to his demise.
But she didn’t sound angry.
He canceled plans for that afternoon’s work and geared up for the drive to Virginia. He was on edge and he knew it. His intended making contact with Dimka’s wife had seemed the decent move to make. But she’d called him. Why? Did she intend to berate him in person for his involvement with her husband’s decision to blow the whistle on Bright Horizons and the Nigerian money scammers?
He stopped by his office before heading for Virginia to pick up the material that Dimka had left for him in the envelope. He wanted it with him to show Abiola Dimka that her husband had trusted him with the information it contained and that he was not an enemy. Mac Smith was gone for the day, but Annabel was there.
“What’s new?” she asked when he poked his head into the attorney’s office.
He told her where he was going.
“I don’t envy you,” she said. “Any idea why she wants to see you?”
“Not a clue,” he said.
It occurred to him that having a woman at his side might ease the trauma of spending time with Dimka’s widow. He started to ask whether Annabel would consider accompanying him when she said, “Want me to go with you?”
“You read my mind,” he said.
“That’s me,” she said lightly, “Annabel Lee Smith, seer and mind reader. I’m free this afternoon, Robert, nothing on the calendar that can’t wait. I’ll leave Mac a note.”
Having Annabel with him brightened Brixton’s mood as they went to where he’d parked his Subaru. He tossed things off the passenger seat into the back before Annabel climbed in and buckled her seat belt. Brixton got behind the wheel and maneuvered into heavy traffic on his way to the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge leading from the District to Virginia.
“What is Mrs. Dimka like?” Annabel asked.
“I’ve never met her,” Brixton replied. “I got the impression from her husband that she wasn’t happy that he was blowing the whistle.”
“Worried for his safety,” Annabel said.
“Can’t blame her,” said Brixton. “Looks like she had every right to worry considering how things ended up.”
He enjoyed having Annabel with him. While he’d become close to Mac Smith and spent considerable time with him, his interaction with Annabel was basically limited to times spent socially. She spent little time at Mac’s office; her pre-Columbian gallery in Georgetown kept her busy, including numerous trips in search of antiquities to offer her buyers. She was a stunning woman; in some ways she resembled Portland’s ex-wife, Elizabeth, tall, nicely formed, and both women blessed with a rich mane of copper-colored hair that bordered on being red. She smelled good, too. Brixton had always been aware of the provocative scent of Annabel’s perfume and cologne, label unknown.
They chatted amiably during the drive. It was when they neared their destination that conversation turned to the purpose of the trip.
“You probably should have warned her that I was coming with you,” Annabel said.
“I thought about that,” he said, “but I didn’t want to spook her. Her husband balked at having Mac come with me, although he didn’t object to David.”
“What was the husband like?” she asked.
He gave her a capsule description of Dimka. “He knew he was treading on dangerous ground,” he concluded. “I really admired the guy.”
“Was Zeke Borgeldt any help in tracing the man you saw fleeing from the scene?”
“No.”
“How do you want to introduce me?” she asked.
“Just that you’re the wife of the attorney I wanted to bring with me the last time I came, and that you’re my friend.”
“I hope that having a woman along eases things.”
“That’s what I’m hoping, too,” he said as they pulled up in front of the address Abiola had given him. “I’m not looking forward to this.”
It was a small tract house that was in the final stages of completion. Landscaping hadn’t been provided yet, and the upstairs windowpanes were still taped.
“Will her children be with her?” Annabel asked.
“I hope not,” Brixton said.
Brixton was about to knock when the front door opened and he and Annabel were faced with a short, lithe woman with ebony skin, short jet-black hair, and the biggest brown eyes Brixton had ever seen. She wore blue jeans, a VMI sweatshirt, and rubber flip-flops.
“Mrs. Dimka?” Brixton said.
“Yes.” She looked past him at Annabel, who’d stayed a few steps behind.
“This is Mrs. Smith,” Brixton said. “She’s the wife of the attorney Mackensie Smith, who I work closely with. I thought that—well, that you might appreciate having a woman with me.”
Abiola managed a small smile as she said, “I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Smith. Please come in.”
They stepped from a small foyer into a living room. Brixton was surprised to see a fair amount of furniture—a sofa, two red director’s chairs, and a folding table surrounded by four collapsible chairs. As far as he knew, everything the Dimka family owned had been consumed by the fire.
Abiola sensed what he was thinking. “The neighbors have been so wonderful,” she said. “We lost everything in the fire, but people have been bringing furniture from their own homes, and food, plenty of food.”
“It’s always nice to see people rise to the occasion when tragedy strikes,” said Annabel. “I’m so sorry about what’s
happened to you.”
Abiola successfully stifled tears and invited them to sit.
“Your children?” Annabel asked.
“They’re with friends,” Abiola said. “I don’t think the reality of what has happened has truly sunk in with them.” She said as an afterthought, “Can I get you something to drink, soda, iced tea?”
“Please don’t bother,” Brixton said, impressed that she was concerned about them and their needs at such a time.
Brixton and Annabel sat on the couch; Abiola took one of the director’s chairs. She seemed small in it, her arms wrapped around her, her face reflecting her struggle to maintain her composure. “First,” she said, “thank you for coming. I’m sure that Ammon would appreciate it.”
“I really liked and admired your husband,” Brixton said.
“And he obviously felt the same about you, Mr. Brixton. Excuse me.”
Abiola left the room, returning moments later carrying an envelope of the same size as the one that Brixton had rescued from the burning house. She handed it to Brixton.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Evidence that Ammon had been collecting.”
“Evidence?” Annabel repeated. “Evidence of what?”
“Evidence to support what he’d been telling you about Bright Horizons and the way innocent people are robbed of their hard-earned money by unscrupulous people back in Nigeria.”
Brixton looked at Annabel before saying, “Your husband had prepared an envelope for me the day he died, Mrs. Dimka. I took it from the house before it burned, too. In it he wrote the same things he’d told me when we met in person.” He held up that envelope.
“I know,” Abiola said, “but this envelope contains proof of what Ammon told you, e-mails, letters, names, addresses, information he’d saved while in Nigeria, and after coming here to the United States to work at Bright Horizons. He kept it in a safe deposit box at our bank.”
Brixton didn’t know how to respond. Here was a woman who’d lost her husband only days earlier, the victim of a vicious attack. Her home had been burned to the ground by the same people who’d killed him. Her two children had lost both a father and a home, and would have to grapple with that for the rest of their lives. She had every right to be angry at the role Brixton had played in her husband’s death. And yet she had gone to the bank to retrieve what she thought he would want to have.
Margaret Truman's Allied in Danger Page 17
