From Cape Town with Love

by Blair Underwood

  “Oh, it can, and it will.” Nelson chuckled sourly. “Now you’re the FBI’s problem. And the chief of police. And pretty much the whole damn world. You want to be famous? You just got your wish. Kiss your life good-bye.”

  Nelson walked away and closed the door. Human, after all.

  5 A.M.

  I thought I finally would be free to leave after my polygraph, but I was wrong.

  “Explain to me again why you didn’t call the police the day of the party?”

  Special Agent Fanelli of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was whiny and incredulous, a posture that had worn thin hours ago. He was about fifty, small boned and craggy faced, with a shock of dark hair and an uneven hairline, wearing a stylish gray suit. His accent was straight out of Little Italy, like John Turturro. “To be honest, Ten, this is the part I still don’t understand.”

  Five in the morning, and no end in sight. The agents were wide awake. At about three, Fanelli had started calling me Ten, as if we were buddies.

  “If I’m being charged with something, I need to call my lawyer. If not, I’m ready to go.”

  “Are you serious?” The female agent, Garceaux, was a fair-skinned sister whose hair was lashed in a tight bun. Her blouse and skirt were so mismatched that I wondered if she’d gotten dressed in the dark. She was in her thirties, but her voice was kitten soft, like a child’s, almost out of my hearing. “This little girl’s life is at stake, and you’re talking about a lawyer? You can’t be bothered to help us conduct a thorough investigation? You and your buddy blew it, but you’re just gonna kick back and see how it all plays out? Wow.”

  Her words were lashes, whipping me. I’d handed Nandi over to men I knew to be killers. Until that night, I hadn’t known what guilt felt like, so thick in my lungs that it was hard to breathe the room’s stale air. Maybe the polygraph had confused guilt with lies.

  Now I understood exactly what Roman meant about those betrayed, those left behind.

  “But sure, go on, put in a call to a lawyer,” Garceaux said. “I’m sure Nandi’s all comfy eating frosted flakes and watching Elmo while we wait for you to lawyer up.” For the first time, she sounded angry. I noticed her wedding band, and I was sure she had kids. Maybe a daughter.

  I stared at the table. I couldn’t raise my eyes to stare a mother in the face.

  “Everything else, we got it,” Fanelli said, pressing on. “You take the money to the fifty. Your buddy goes Dirty Harry and starts shooting. He gets sliced and diced.”

  “His name was Roman,” I said, my eyes snapping to his. Fanelli dehumanized Roman at every chance, trying to rattle me and force a discrepancy in my story.

  Fanelli almost smiled, bemused that he’d gotten to me. “Pardon me—Roman. Then you try to grab Nandi, but they clock you and take her away. She’s gone in a poof. I got all that. The part where I’m stuck, bear with me, is why you don’t call the police. Like, right away. And your dad’s an LAPD captain? It confuses me. As soon as the kid is missing, you say, ‘Listen, I know you’re a movie star, but there’s common sense and there’s stupidity.’ Was it a mass outbreak of stupidity? Is that why a man is dead and this little girl is God-knows-where?”

  “Sounds right—put it in writing,” I said. “WE FUCKED UP!”

  I don’t know where I got the energy to shout.

  Garceaux sighed. At last, maybe she felt sorry for me.

  Fanelli finally had the confession he wanted. He gave me a contemptuous gaze over his shoulder before flipping through his notes. “Lucky for you, stupid’s not a crime.”

  “Nothing else about the subjects?” Garceaux asked me, more gently. “Not even race?”

  I went through my laundry list again: “Only one of them spoke. He had an upscale English accent, but it could have been phony. I can’t tell you race, because they were covered from head to toe. The one who killed Roman used a knife, and his art looked like one I saw in Langa. That’s where Maitlin found Nandi, in South Africa.”

  “His ‘art’?” Fanelli said. “That’s what you call it?”

  I was tired, so maybe I shouldn’t have said it—but the knife fighter was an artist. Once Roman was disarmed, he’d never had a chance. Almost no one would. “He’s incredibly dangerous,” I said. “About five-seven. He’s not big, but his knife was like the needle of a sewing machine, jabbing from different angles. Fast as hell.”

  Garceaux was scribbling eager notes, but Fanelli wasn’t impressed. Anything I said was wasted on his ears. “You done with your briefing now . . . Detective?” he said.

  Fuck you, I told him with my eyes, but ignorance can’t be cured in a single conversation. I’d been underestimated my whole life—except by Sofia Maitlin, who’d expected far too much.

  “Here’s the new reality of your life . . . ,” Fanelli went on. “My injunction says you can’t go within five hundred feet of Sofia Maitlin. You are not to contact Sofia Maitlin. If you dream about Sofia Maitlin, you’re going to jail. We’ll tell your new roommates you aided and abetted in this kidnapping—so you’ll get along great with the guys behind the wall.”

  I’d expected to be iced out, but it stung. My head felt too tired to hold upright. I had promised Nandi I would come for her. I closed my eyes, and her tear-damp face shined at me.

  “Was anything I just said confusing to you?” Fanelli said.

  “I need to tell Sofia what happened,” I said.

  “Trust me, she knows,” Garceaux said. “Take that off your list of worries, sunshine.”

  “This is a federal investigation now,” Fanelli said. “You’re off this case. Until we contact you again, forget you heard Nandi’s name. Do not discuss this case with anyone. Talk to the news about this case, or the tabloids, and you’re going away. Have I been clear?”

  He waited for an answer, so I nodded.

  “Louder—for the tape, please,” Garceaux said.

  “Got it.” A growl of surrender preserved for posterity.

  They glanced at each other, deciding I’d had enough.

  Garceaux slapped my shoulder. “Better hope we can clean it up. Get some sleep.”

  They left me alone in the interview room. Nandi’s cries and Roman’s screams rang in the small room’s walls, inescapable.

  Five minutes passed before I could rise to my feet.

  Chela was the last person I expected to find waiting for me at Robbery-Homicide. She looked dressed up for Halloween, wearing oversize sunglasses, one of Dad’s fedoras, and my trench coat.

  “Ten!” she said, and wrapped her arms around my neck. I needed her hug, but I was so tired that she nearly pulled me off balance.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think? You scared the shit out of us!” Chela said, still hanging on. When Chela’s hair brushed my cheek, I smelled Nandi in her curls. My stomach lurched. “Ten, why didn’t you tell us Sofia Maitlin’s baby was—” She stopped in midsentence, noticing the bandage on the back of my head. “Omigod! Did they take you to a hospital?”

  A crowd was gathering as we attracted the attention of newly arrived detectives huddled near the coffee machine. Extra manpower. They weren’t usually at work so early, and I didn’t like their eyes on us. I wasn’t in the mood to answer any more questions, spoken or unspoken.

  “I’m fine,” I told Chela, steering her toward the hall. “Who told you about—”

  “Captain’s cop friend called. We’ve been here three hours already.”

  I scanned the mostly empty office. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s sleeping in the car. Ten, there’s a buttload of news vans outside the police station, and the reporters are all asking questions about you and Sofia Maitlin’s baby. It’s surreal!”

  I understood Chela’s strange costume: It was a disguise. The story was out. The reporters might beat us to my house. A mounted television screen across the room with local news was showing a photo of Nandi. AMBER ALERT: MAITLIN KIDNAPPING!

  What if we’d put out the word when
the original trail was fresh?

  My stomach rolled, twice. I was about to puke all over the floor of the RHD.

  “Wait for me,” I told Chela.

  I’d given up on making it to the men’s room when I almost ran by the sign on a door beside me. The bathroom was empty. I lurched to the first stall, and everything spilled out of my stomach: the coffee, the lone protein bar I’d had for dinner at Maitlin’s, and a quart of pure acid. My stomach kept heaving long after the food was gone.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I’d ignored my phone during the FBI interview, but I grabbed it. I was surprised by how much I hoped it was April.

  PRIVATE CALLER, my screen said. Was it the kidnappers?

  “Tennyson.”

  I recognized her sob before she spoke. “Are you all right?” Sofia Maitlin whispered.

  “God, Sofia, I’m so, so sorry,” I said. My legs folded beneath me. Suddenly, I was sitting against the wall, half a foot from the urinal. The smell was sharp, making me want to vomit again, but I couldn’t move. The tiles were cold through the seat of my pants.

  “Of course,” she said. “I know you are.”

  “It was going fine, according to the agreement, and then Roman freaked out and went after them. He was gone before I could stop him. He shot one of their guys, and it went to hell.”

  I owed Maitlin the truth as I saw it.

  Footsteps in the hallway brought me to my feet, and I leaned on the wall for support, the way my father did at home. The footsteps passed me, fast and sure down the hall.

  “Nandi?” Maitlin said, whispering. I wondered if she was hiding, too.

  “I had her. She wasn’t hurt. I was carrying her in my arms before they took her back.”

  Maitlin sobbed quietly. “Everyone said to call the police. If I had, Roman wouldn’t be . . .”

  He wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t lost his mind either, I thought.

  “Roman made a choice,” I said. “He knew the risks. So did I.”

  “But they said they would kill her if we told anyone! I thought it would be better to keep quiet. Can you understand?” Maitlin needed forgiveness, too. “Everyone knows now.”

  “The publicity’s a good thing,” I said. “She’s everywhere because of who you are, and someone’s seen her. It’s the best weapon you have. It’s exactly what they didn’t want.”

  Unfortunately, the massive publicity would make Nandi’s kidnappers desperate, and I knew they must be arguing about their next move. They might kill Nandi without ever wanting to. The next phone call, if another came, might be our last chance.

  “Have you heard from them?” I said.

  “Nothing.” A tight squeak. “I borrowed this phone. I’m keeping mine clear.”

  “The FBI’s shutting me out,” I said. “There’s a court order.”

  “That’s Alec. My way didn’t work, so now it’s his way. How can I argue?”

  “Don’t argue. I’m glad the FBI is there, but I need somebody to keep me in the loop.” I needed to fulfill my promise to Nandi’s frightened eyes.

  “Tennyson . . . ,” Maitlin began. “Do you think . . . ?”

  She’d be a fool not to wonder if Nandi was sleeping in a shallow grave.

  “People who kill children don’t let people like me live,” I said, assuring myself as much as Maitlin. “They smell the money now. No matter what, make them believe you’ll pay more. He talked like a businessman. He doesn’t want to hurt Nandi. If Roman hadn’t pissed them off, I believe it would have gone down just like we agreed. We broke the agreement first.”

  “I just talked to Wendy,” Maitlin said. “Poor woman. With those kids!”

  I didn’t ask about her conversation with Roman’s widow. Wendy would accept all the solace she could gather today; tomorrow, she’d probably file a lawsuit against Maitlin.

  “Was Nandi wearing the same dress? From the party?” Maitlin said suddenly.

  Red T-shirt, no logo. Red shorts. I told Maitlin what I’d told the FBI, and then I added details I’d saved for her. “Her hair wasn’t combed, but she was clean,” I said. “Fresh clothes. She looked fine. She was drinking juice. They’re taking care of her.” They were, anyway.

  “Her hair!” Maitlin said, her tone lighter, far away. “Oh, I can just see it . . .”

  “Nandi recognized me. ‘Mister Ten!’ she said. I told her we had to run, and she said, ‘Really fast?’” When I mimicked Nandi’s delight, Maitlin laughed, or sobbed, or both. My hushed lullaby went on: “She said she wanted her mommy . . .”

  Sofia Maitlin finally had the chance to visit her daughter.

  FIFTEEN

  8:35 A.M.

  Sleep was the last thing on my mind at home, but no one could have slept with so many helicopters beating overhead, an airborne assault. The FBI had sidelined me into a circus tent.

  Inside, the house was silent. The television set in the living room was off. I’d tried watching TV for updates on Nandi, but it was too jarring. Last person with Nandi. Held for questioning. Restraining order. Fox News was already running clips of my old TV series, Homeland, and my image played above the bright red question: Who Is Tennyson Hardwick? In Hollywood, the caption should have said, Who WAS Tennyson Hardwick?

  Nelson had put it best: Kiss your life good-bye.

  Chela was upstairs monitoring her bedroom TV at a low volume; finally, she’d found the perfect job. I’d asked her to write down anything she thought I should know, but for the past two hours, all she’d reported was recap and supposition. No actual news. Chela was supposed to be in school, but we were having a family emergency.

  Distraction can be deadly, so I put the noise out of my mind. When your day already feels like a bad dream, it’s easy to pretend it isn’t real.

  The FBI had shut me out, but I’d been ready for them—just in case. I’d emailed myself the data Roman and I had compiled before the last call from the kidnappers. I’d stashed a flash drive in the glove compartment of my Prius, but my car was now a part of a crime scene, so I was glad I’d emailed the file as a backup. With FBI involvement, I’d probably lost my email and phone privacy, too, but I’d sent my data to an encrypted site they would have to hunt harder for.

  I was never a Boy Scout, but I try to stay prepared.

  My house was a command center. I’d built a makeshift office in the tiny panic room Alice had converted from a pantry before she died, one of our house’s most practical features. Without the shelves, the panic room had space for a card table and two folding chairs. The room, hidden behind a massive wine shelf, had once sheltered Chela. Now the room sheltered me while I searched for Nandi.

  I used Dad’s laptop—a Christmas present that was still barely out of the box—just in case my desktop and laptop were confiscated later in the day. It had happened before, after my friend Serena was murdered. Dad’s computer was a slim precaution, but at least I had an option.

  Dad paced the small room with his cane, studying the pages I’d taped to the walls: lists of names and telephone numbers, and businesses hired for Nandi’s birthday party. I was relieved to have my father standing over my shoulder. I’d made a horrible mistake in judgment with Roman, but I was in sure hands again.

  “Tom Hanks’s limo driver was found unconscious,” I said. “Behind the wheel, apparently drunk, two miles down Mulholland. Swears he doesn’t know how he got there.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Someone at that party knocked him out, took his place, smuggled Nandi into that limo . . . and then just drove out the front gate.”

  “Description?”

  “The driver never saw a thing. One minute he was smoking a cigarette, and the next . . . a cop was shaking him awake.”

  Dad nodded with a heavy, angry sigh. “Professionals.”

  “Wonder if they put her in the trunk. It’s risky on a sunny day like Sunday. She could have died.”

  “Not if they weren’t going far,” Dad said.

  Of course. A limo driver could h
ave pulled into a gas station, or stopped at a corner, and transferred Nandi to another vehicle. Hanks would never have known anything was wrong until he had to hitch a ride with Angela Bassett and Courtney Vance. It was common for limo drivers to run errands during long waits.

  “I need to look at the tape again,” I said, firing up my computer screen. I’d made a digital copy of about forty minutes at the front gate, twenty minutes before Nandi’s vanishing, and twenty minutes after. “We weren’t looking for cars coming in, only going out.”

  “Leave that angle alone,” Dad said. “I’ll tell Nelson to follow up.”

  I looked up at him, but he kept his eyes away from me, reading the walls.

  “Dad, Nelson’s not gonna give a damn—”

  “Whoever clocked this limo guy is long gone, Ten. You know why? ’Cuz ya’ll made a damn phone call instead of sending a SWAT team. You did your best, but you needed more.” Dad’s voice was pained. My decision not to call the police baffled him.

  “Nelson doesn’t want to hear any leads from me,” I said.

  “Don’t get caught messing with the FBI’s case, Ten.” Dad said it with hushed urgency, like the most important advice he had left. “You hear me?”

  You hear? I had said that to Nandi, slipping into my father’s language. Unexpected words and images took me back to the football stadium. To Nandi’s tears.

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said. “I don’t know if Nelson is a real cop, or just a yes-man.”

  “How you gonna talk about real cops?” Dad said, so angry that he spat. “Nelson is a cop. Nelson and the FBI are three steps ahead.” He swept his arm toward the wall as if my papers were preschool drawings. “This ain’t shit! Snap their fingers, this is all done.”

  And all-night grilling by the FBI couldn’t cut me like one sentence from my father. I’d suspected what he thought—now I knew. Richard Allen Hardwick spoke his mind.

  “Go on and do this any way you want,” Dad went on. “You’re a grown-ass man, Ten. But if something happens to that little girl, you’re gonna be in Hell, son. Hell is walking and breathing after you cost somebody’s life.”