Levon's Night

by Chuck Dixon

  “I cannot thank you enough, Mitch,” she said, climbing down from the cab.

  “I can pull your SUV out and tow it here if you like.”

  “There’s no hurry. I’m certainly not going out again any time soon and—what an idiot!” she said in a sudden shout.

  He blinked at her.

  “Oh, not you, my dear. I left everything I bought in Bellevue in the back of the car. The very reason I left the house in the first place,” she said, slapping her hands against her sides.

  “You head on in. I’ll run down and get them for you,” he said.

  “You are a Southern gentleman.” She beamed and closed the passenger door.

  He watched her slip slide her way to the front door before following the circle drive around and back to Mohawk Road toward the snowbound Merc.

  Something to write about.

  10

  * * *

  The call at four in the morning found Nancy Vargas awake.

  She was in bed with a laptop open atop a pillow across her thighs and a second open beside her where her husband used to sleep before he took off with an intern at his lobbying firm. Her red hair was pinned atop her head like Pebbles Flintstone. Her mom was Irish and her dad a Chicano. She told people she was a Micksican.

  This hunt for the Blanco cash was keeping her up nights, which was way better than lying awake all night, hands fisted in the sheets and thinking of Rick fucking that graduate school bitch at her apartment in Georgetown.

  Nancy’s cell sang the opening the bars of a Pogues song. A number in Sydney appeared on the screen above a selfie of a grinning bearded man.

  “You sound awake.” Dave McCracken, a wonk at the Taxation Office in Oz that she’d met at a conference in London three years back. A member of the loose network of forensic accountants she’d dubbed the Legion of Super Beancounters.

  “I am awake,” she said.

  “You sent out a profile of a robbery in Costa Rica a month back. Is that still something you’re keen on?”

  “It is.”

  “A home invasion style burglary on Fiji came in that matches a lot of the details in your profile.”

  “What can you send along?” she said, already tapping keys, Googling Fiji, burglary, home invasion and Corey Blanco.

  “The official reports and a video of the crime scene. I’m trying to get a full forensics report as well. How’s that for service, eh?” Dave said. She could tell he was smiling as he said it. The man had some serious dimples going on.

  “Beautiful, Dave. You know where to send them. Thanks so much.”

  “I need to hear the magic words, love.”

  “‘But I have no idea where these came from,’” Nancy said in a little girl sing-song that brought an explosion of laughter from the other side of the world.

  She moved to the desktop at her workstation in the living room and opened the files from McCracken. The video showed a crime scene similar enough to the home invasion at Puntayamas to give her déjà vu. The safe hidden behind the mirrors of the home gym. The two victims duct-taped into kitchen chairs and facing one another. They’d been in situ for a while indicated by the bloating and the presence of insects. They were only found when a groundskeeper crew followed a thick band of ants from a flower bed to a set of French doors with a clear view of the murder scene.

  A young man with dark skin and longish black hair seated across from a young blond woman.

  The woman was naked except for the plastic bag drawn tight about her head by her final inhalations. Other than this she was untouched. The male was less fortunate. Close-ups in sickening high definition detail showed where fingers and toes had been snipped off, probably by bolt cutters as examination of the children at the Costa Rican house had revealed. Teeth were pulled, the gums swollen and black. There were areas of severe burns to the chest from a torch or open flame. Nancy moved the cursor to take her back to the beginning of the video as the camera moved down to the man’s genital area.

  Screen captures of the home gym showed the open vault. They had drilled and tapped into the lock mechanism. No help with the combination this time. The job was neat, very professional. These guys were not pikers. They meant business. The broken mirror glass all about the room was the only sign that they were losing patience with the hunt.

  In the vault they’d found slim pickings. Some cash and a single box containing envelopes of uncut gems.

  She zipped past the homicide scene footage to a sequence where the goods from the vault were laid out on a table. Australian and US dollars in two-thousand-dollar bundles. She froze the image and counted about two hundred thousand in Oz money and a bit more in American. The gems were uncut diamonds that, if she was any judge, would trim down to two to three carats. Fifty-two of these in paper envelopes arranged in a velvet lined box. Three passports showing pictures of Corey Blanco, his trophy wife and their oldest child, the girl, at maybe three years of age. All with different names than the passports they’d found at the Puntayamas house. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mr. and Mrs. Milton Van Schiver and their daughter Lainie.

  So they hadn’t visited this house in a decade. Not since their youngest was born. How many other boltholes did Blanco have around the world?

  Her own digging revealed that the property in Costa Rica was purchased by a company incorporated in Cambodia and the construction of the house had been financed through a bank in Venezuela and paid off in full by a draft from a Bahamian bank from an account held by a limited partnership formed in South Africa and administered by a law firm in Johannesburg. Never anywhere on any document in all those transactions, settlements and draws did Courtland Ray Blanco’s name appear.

  The place in Fiji would have a similar provenance. She was sure of it.

  But did the crew find what they were looking for in this most recent invasion?

  Nancy turned to the crime report that she printed up so she could read it from the comfort of her sofa. The FPF reports were dry reading but loaded with details. The robbery crew had left nothing behind by way of evidence. Not so much as a single shoe print. There was some DNA evidence still out but that held little promise as there were signs that all surfaces around the site of the vault and the two homicides were wiped. Someone even vacuumed the floor and furniture and took the vacuum cleaner with them when they left. Sadistic yet thorough.

  Fingerprint evidence revealed that the male victim was a Fiji native of mixed Fijian and Asian Indian extraction. Further evidence indicated that he had been squatting in the house for an extended period of time. His prints were multi-layered and showed up everywhere in the house. The female was a German national from Rostock and fresh off a cruise ship that departed Fiji a week ago without her.

  The detective who prepared the reports shared in the notes his surmise that the villains (his words) unsuccessfully tortured the male, believing that he knew the combination to the vault. Both victims were then murdered when he failed to cooperate for whatever reason. Some consternation was expressed over the amount of cash and valuables left behind by the robbers. The conclusion reached by the primary detective was that the robbers were after something far more valuable and left behind items that might later be traced to them.

  The guy was half right.

  Nancy knew that the invaders mistakenly believed that the German girl was housesitting and had some connection to the owners because she was the one who served as witness. The Fijian squatter was the torture subject in an attempt to get her to talk. In the end, neither of them knew anything. In addition to being sadistic fucks the robbers were also racist; assuming the white girl was in charge and the person of color only there for scenery.

  There was more about semen found on and in the person of the German but none of the usual signs of sexual assault. The sperm was a DNA match for the male victim. The local was using the Blanco hideaway as a fuckpad. Too bad, buddy. You picked the wrong house to hole up in. She felt sorrier for the girl. On a dream vacay on an island paradise and waking up to hell
.

  A glance at the clock. Only six-thirty in the AM. She wanted to call Bill Marquez and share all of this. But she was sure he wouldn’t be awake for another few hours California time. She needed to calm down in the meantime. She stepped out onto the balcony off her apartment and shivered in the damp cold of Arlington in January. She lifted the dome cover off the barbecue grill and retrieved the crumpled pack of Kools she’d hidden there back when she and Rick quit together. How romantic. If he could cheat with that chippie then she could have a cigarette now and then.

  She hugged her cardigan about her and smoked and thought. Did the villains (that word was growing on her) get what they wanted? Was Fiji the end of the trail? Was there a way to determine the timeline of when the vault was drilled open and when the unlucky pair died? Were they tortured for the combination or afterward for revenge? Or maybe they asked the German girl where whatever the hell they were looking for was when they found the cupboard bare. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. That had to be clear to the robbers early on. No one can totally fake ignorance in the face of that kind of horror. And the poor fräulein from Rostock did not have an easy out like a weak heart to take her away from the monsters the way Corey Blanco had managed.

  Then the hours of torture were retribution; someone taking out their frustration at being disappointed by what they found in the vault. That told Nancy two things.

  They were still out there somewhere looking for their prize.

  And someone on the crew enjoyed inflicting pain.

  It was near seven when she came back inside after two Kools.

  Fuck it. Marquez would just have to stand an early wake-up. She found his cell number and tapped send.

  11

  * * *

  The Celestron telescope was trained on the house directly across the lake. Rambling along the shore over a one acre footprint, it looked more like a theme park attraction than a billionaire’s summer home. A Swiss-style chalet with a faux-wood shake roof and eaves dripping with gingerbread wood trim sprawled atop another half-acre of terraced deck with steps to a boat dock. She could picture Julie Andrews skipping around the place followed by a gaggle of blond-headed kids in lederhosen and dirndls.

  More money than style, Lee mused to herself, and raised her eye from the rubber socket of the scope. Next to it and also aimed out the lake-facing bay window was a Nikon camera mounted with a telescopic optical cannon equipped with night vision atop a tripod and fixed in position. It was set to take time lapse video in case she dozed off.

  Her circadian rhythms were flipped. She slept most of the day and spent her nights checking the house across the lake for lights or sign of movement. Sometimes she shifted the view to take in the few neighbors that shared Mohawk Road with her.

  There was a lot of downtime. The dangers of being bored to death seemed real to her. She cooked complicated meals in the gourmet kitchen and worked them off in the well-equipped home gym. She stayed fit as well by using of a pair of in-track skis that she used to explore trails around the lake.

  The Moulson house offered other distractions. An extensive library of Blu-rays and DVDs. They leaned to recent blockbusters and family-oriented fare except for the porno stash she found hidden in the back of the walk-in off the master bedroom. Lots of girl-on-girl which held little interest to her.

  Snooping through the Moulsons’ belongings occupied her for the first week she spent in their house. She learned quite a bit about them from her explorations. The information could come in handy should anyone ask her about them. It wasn’t as if she knew them at all. She’d found the house by a search of real estate sites and county records. The Facebook page of their middle daughter (they had four children, three daughters and a son) mentioned her glee that Mummy and Daddy would be wintering in the house in the Bahamas until late February. The middle daughter was the wildest of the Moulson kids as well as the most open on social media about family comings and goings. With the parents away, the main Moulson domicile in Wellesley would be party central until their return.

  Of the four homes Lee reconned, the Moulson place was the most ideally suited, being directly across from the house that held her interest. On paper that house belonged to Downeast Holdings as a lease property. In reality she knew it belonged, through several more stratum of shell companies, to a family named Blanco.

  It was late in the day. The lowering sun created a persistent glare off the ice that was lancing into her eyes to kindle a migraine. To hell with that, she thought. They wouldn’t come in the day anyway. And she knew they would come.

  Lee went into the kitchen to help herself to an espresso from the excellent Jura machine she’d gotten so much use out of. A noise from the front of the house turned her away from the kitchen to the front foyer. Through the beveled glass windows to one side of the double front doors she could see the Ram truck of the man who’d helped her home the other day. The truck pulled up into the drive and turned into the half circle turnaround set before the front. Her Mercedes was behind it on a tow line. She could see someone behind the wheel of her Merc but could not make out any features through the tinted glass.

  The Ram came to a rest and the man from the day before climbed from the cab. Mike? Mark? He went to the rear of the truck to undo the tow line. He was joined by a young girl in a bright yellow parka and a colorful took with a long tail and tassel who got out of her car. He’d mentioned a daughter.

  Lee slipped on an anorak and Uggs and opened the door to call to them.

  “I’m just making espresso and I think I see someone who’d like a hot chocolate,” she called to them. The man hesitated and turned to speak to the little girl who grinned and nodded.

  They joined her at the kitchen table. Moira was introduced. Lee recalled Mitch’s name by the time they reached the door.

  Levon politely sipped a bit of the espresso while Merry munched a scone and drained a big mug of cocoa sprinkled with mini-marshmallows.

  “You didn’t need to bring my car back. It’s not like I’m going anywhere until the thaw,” Lee said.

  “I wanted to get it off the road for you. It was almost drifted over. Someone was going to run into it sooner or later.” Mitch shrugged.

  “A drunken hunter,” the little girl offered.

  “Well, I appreciate that,” Lee said.

  “Are you stocked for the winter? Even one person can go through a lot of goods,” Levon asked.

  “I believe I am. I mean, I think so. The Moulsons’ have quite the larder. I don’t remember when I’ve eaten so well.”

  “We make at least one trip to the Bellevue market every week,” the girl said, licking away a chocolate mustache.

  “We’d be glad to pick up whatever you need. That Cecile has, I mean,” Levon said. He’d pulled a felt-tip pen from a pocket of his coat and looked around the counter for something to write on.

  “That would be an enormous help if you could.” Lee pulled a note pad from a drawer and placed it before him. Levon wrote their number on the top sheet by their new name. Roeder.

  “We’ll leave you to whatever you were doing, Miss…”

  “It’s Tessler. But please call me Lee, both of you,” she said and took his hand as well as the notepad in her own. A big hand, with a thick layer of callus on the edge and heel.

  “Thanks for the cocoa,” the little girl said and hopped from the chair to rush to the door.

  “And the coffee,” Levon said, meeting Lee’s eyes with his own as took his hand back and made to follow his daughter.

  “Any time,” Lee said.

  She went to the door to watch the two of them climb into the cab of the truck. He held the door for the little girl and secured it shut behind her. As he rounded the front of the Ram he looked toward the house once more and saw Lee standing in the door regarding him. He dipped his head in acknowledgment before he got behind the wheel.

  There might just be more ways to kill time in this barn other than DVDs and Pilates, she thought as she watched the
truck turn away down the drive for the road.

  Fifth Entry

  12/27

  * * *

  Thought of A today.

  I miss her.

  Miss a lot of people. Lots a lot. I remember their names but not their faces.

  Except for A.

  I can see her face. I can smell her. I can feel her hand on me and mine on her.

  The memories hurt. Maybe I should try and forget but I can’t. Don’t think I would if I could.

  She’s in my heart.

  She always will be.

  12

  * * *

  They spent New Year’s Day at the Fentons.

  The two Fenton kids were out on the ice with Merry, showing her the finer points of cross-country skiing. Small, colorful shapes on the flat white dish of the lake. Levon stood by the bay window of the cabin watching them. The Fenton boy and girl moving easily over the bright snow in easy rhythm. Merry making more halting progress; getting hung up and leaning on the poles to get going again. The Fenton girl made a herringbone turn to glide back to Merry and offer advice. Levon couldn’t see their faces over the distance. Their body language told him they were laughing.

  “Good kids,” he said to himself.

  “What’s that, Mitch?” Danielle said from the kitchen.

  “You have a good pair of kids. They’re being patient with my girl,” Levon said, turning to her.

  “Moira’s so sweet. This is the first winter in a while they’ve had anyone near their age staying here.”

  “Are those black-eyed peas?” Levon watched her stir a bubbling pot with a wooden spoon.

  “Sure are. I read that greens and black-eyed peas are a Southern tradition for the New Year. Is that right? It’s a good luck thing?”