by Jeff Buick
“How long will it be before you call back?”
“It’s three A. M. over here. It may take me a few minutes to find an airline rep. There should be someone here who can sell me a ticket. I’d guess in a half hour, maybe less.”
“Okay, I’ll get ready to leave.”
“Good. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Thanks.”
“You stay safe.”
Leona set the phone back in its cradle and stood motionless in the middle of her living room. Darkness was settling in, the streetlights throwing a deepening yellow hue over the trees and cars parked along the curb. Branches swayed slightly in the evening breeze and shadows danced about on her front window. Silence crawled into every corner of the town house, air entering and escaping her lungs as she slowly breathed in and out, the only sound in the rapidly darkening room. A couple walked by on the opposite side of the road, their dog pulling at its leash. A solitary car drove past, then nothing. Just the shadows.
Leona moved to the stairs, her bare feet soundless on the hardwood. She set one foot on the bottom riser, feeling the carpet on her toes. Every sense was heightened, every nerve on edge. She left the light off, not wanting to illuminate herself in case someone was watching. Step after step, she walked up toward her bedroom. She reached the top of the stairs and contemplated turning on the hallway light. This portion of the house wasn’t visible from the street. Her hand went to the light switch, then stopped. There was some sort of security with being in a dark space that she knew well. She had walked every inch of her town house a thousand times with the lights off, getting water, using the bathroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen on winter mornings. If anyone else were in the house, they would be at a disadvantage.
She left the lights off and moved ahead, closer to her bedroom door. She glanced in the second and third bedrooms as she passed. They appeared empty, but there were many places to hide if someone were already here, waiting. Leona reached the door to her bedroom and stopped, listening. There was a light scraping sound, but she recognized it as a branch on the tree that brushed against the garden doors leading to the small second-floor balcony off her bedroom. How many times had she lain in bed listening to that sound, vowing to take the pruning shears to it the next morning? She always got busy and forgot about it. She slowly tilted her head, keeping her body behind the wall. The room came into view.
Her bed was made, the duvet smooth, the pillows puffed up and carefully arranged against the wrought-iron headboard. A half-full glass of water sat next to her alarm clock. The clock’s red numbers were now very visible in the almost total darkness. Pale moonlight backlit the tree tucked against the rear of her town house, casting shadows into the room, much like the scene in her living room. She let out a slow and deliberate breath, then relaxed and moved into the room.
She froze.
The outline of a hand, then an arm, followed by the shape of a man’s body, materialized outside the garden doors leading to the balcony. The hand reached for the handle and twisted. The door was locked. The intruder slid effortlessly into a position directly centered on the doors and crouched in front of the handle, working on the lock.
Leona backed into the hallway, her breath coming in short gasps. If she had turned on the light, he would have known she was there, would have stayed out of sight. Her eyes would have adjusted to the brightness, allowing him to stay invisible in the low light. She hugged the wall, her mind spinning with a tangle of disjointed thoughts. Did he know she was in the house? Was it the same person who destroyed her restaurant? What to do? She had to escape. Time was of the essence. She had to react, and quickly, before he gained access to her house. She had seconds, not minutes.
She turned and raced down the stairs, her bare feet soundless on the carpet. Once on the hardwood she slowed and ran on the balls of her feet, not wanting to send vibrations through the house. Her car was in the garage, but she bypassed the keys, hanging on a hook on the wall. Opening the garage door was a giveaway to her location, something she was not going to do. She was thinking clearer now, focusing on one thing. Survival. Don’t give the intruder anything to work with. No clues to where she was. She reached the front door and silently turned the deadbolt. She felt a presence behind her, then a noise. A loose floorboard. She grabbed the door handle and twisted as she turned to look. He was at the end of the hall, coming toward her fast. Running. Close, very close. She pulled on the door and scrambled onto her stoop, then down the stairs to the street. Her heart was pounding as she frantically looked up and down the road. A car turned on from Fifteenth Street and she jumped into the headlights, waving her arms and screaming. The driver slammed on his brakes and the taillights flashed as he thrust the transmission into park. He opened the door and stepped halfway from his vehicle.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He appeared to be around thirty and solidly built.
“Someone’s in my house. A robber. He tried to grab me.”
She ran to where he stood, fear in her eyes.
The man made a snap decision. “Get in.” He motioned to the passenger’s door.
Leona slipped into the car and looked back at her condo. The front door clicked shut as she watched. A moment later a shadowy figure appeared in the front window, staring out onto the street. She could see his outline, but no features. Then he was gone. Hardly any motion, a flicker, then nothing.
“Damn.” The driver had his cell phone to his ear. “I’m on nine-one-one hold.”
“Here.” Leona dug in her pocket and retrieved George Harvey’s card. “Dial the cell number. He’s a cop.”
The man took the card and flipped on the overhead light. He dialed and when it rang, handed the phone to Leona. A couple of rings and Harvey answered.
“Detective Harvey, it’s Leona Hewitt.” She sucked in a deep breath as she motioned for the driver to pull up the street, away from her condo. “He just tried to kill me again.”
54
Darvin watched the taillights on the car until it turned the corner and disappeared. His mouth was twisted into a sneer and his eyes glowed with anger.
“Dirty, dirty, dirty,” he said through clenched teeth. “Goddamn dirty bitch keeps getting away.”
He turned back to the room. There was much to do and little time. He picked up the phone and hit redial, then jotted down the number that appeared on the display. The phone had an up-down button and he pushed it, recording every number Leona had called until it reached the bottom of the list. Twenty numbers. He tucked the paper in his pocket and went in search of her mail. He found a stack of unopened envelopes on the narrow table in the hallway and stuffed them in his waistband. Her office was on the main floor, and he tried the computer. The monitor glowed when he touched the mouse. A quick click on Microsoft Outlook and her e-mail program opened. He went to contacts and hit print, rummaging through her drawers while the printer warmed up. Two minutes later he closed the back door behind him and blended into the blackness of Leona’s backyard.
His car was a block over on Hampshire, facing toward Dupont Circle. He merged in with the traffic, muttering curses under his breath. Two steps closer and he could have slammed the door and snapped her neck. A couple of seconds had saved her. Not for long, he thought. People are entirely predictable. Leona Hewitt wouldn’t disappoint him. Somewhere in the list of names he had taken off her phone and computer was the person she would turn to for help. He’d know it when he saw it. That was one of his gifts.
Not one that would ever win him a philanthropic award, but a gift nevertheless.
It was getting late and he opted to pull into a small roadside motel and register for the night. No sense driving and getting pulled over, his license scanned into the police computers. The less you gave the cops to work with, the less likely they were to catch you. It was so simple. He checked in, paid cash for the room and spread the printouts from the woman’s computer on the bed. The answer was there. He just needed to find it.
Mike Anderson replac
ed the handset and pushed open the door to the phone booth. The concourse was quiet; most of the people from the arriving flight had already collected their luggage and headed for customs. He walked quickly past the baggage carousels, cleared German customs and immigration, and went in search of a ticket agent. The American airlines were all closed, but Lufthansa was open. The women spoke fluent English and found a flight leaving Frankfort for Washington, DC, at 11:16—a little over eight hours. It was the best he could do.
“I need to call my friend in Washington and have her put the charge through on her credit card. I was robbed yesterday. I lost everything but my passport.”
“I’m not sure we can make the long-distance call,” the woman said.
“I know my calling-card number. I can bill it to my account.”
She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.” She handed over the phone and Mike dialed Leona’s number, then input his calling card number and password when prompted. The phone rang six times, then went to voice mail. He tried again with the same result. Nothing changed on the third attempt. He stood at the counter, the phone in his hand, wondering where she was. Another customer approached the counter and he handed the woman the phone and stepped off to the side.
No more than twenty minutes had passed since they had spoken. She told him she would wait for his call, yet she was gone. Gone or dead. He felt helpless, useless. Trapped on the other side of the world from a friend who needed him. The ticket agent finished with her customer and he stepped back up to the counter.
“Do you have an Internet connection?” he asked. “I can book the ticket through the site I use back in the US. They have my credit card number on file.”
“Not here. Our ticketing system is tied into our mainframe computers. But there is an Internet café in the airport. One level up. Use the first set of escalators and turn right.”
“Thanks,” Mike said. He headed for the café at a brisk pace. Even if he could get a flight, the best he could hope for was to arrive in Washington in twelve to fourteen hours. That would be about midmorning in DC. Monday morning. People heading back to work after the weekend. A normal day for most. Except Leona Hewitt.
George Harvey thanked the motorist for assisting Leona and staying with her until he arrived. They exchanged cards; the man gave Leona a grim smile and wished her well, then drove off. Leona joined the DC detective in his car as a light rain began to fall.
“Nice fellow,” Harvey said, twisting about in the seat and leaning his left elbow on the steering wheel. “You’re lucky he was driving by.”
She nodded, watching the tiny drops of rain splatter against the windshield. “I’m not sure lucky is a good adjective to describe me right now.”
“Did you get a look at the guy? Any sort of description?”
She shook her head. “All I saw was an outline. He was on the second-floor balcony and the only light was from the moon, which was directly behind him.”
“Nothing that stands out?”
She watched the rain. Random little concentric circles against the glass. A bit like life—countless tiny happenings, all linked together to form one giant patchwork quilt. The ultimate menagerie. “His hair,” she said, her voice surprising even herself.
“What about his hair?” the detective asked.
She closed her eyes and tried to piece it together. Why had she said that? What was it about his hair? There was something, but what? The moonlight, reflecting off his shape, his head. It was light, blond almost, and perfect. That was it. Not a strand out of place. Too perfect.
“I’ve seen his hair somewhere before,” she said, turning slowly to face Harvey. “I can’t remember where, but I know I’ve seen him. In fact, I think I’ve been face-to-face with him.”
Harvey was silent for a while, letting her work with the thoughts spinning about her head. When she didn’t continue, he said, “Sometimes if you forget about it for a while it comes back to you.”
She nodded. “Maybe.”
“Have you got somewhere to stay? Some place you know is safe?”
“Yes. I can go to a friend’s house. He’s in Europe tonight, heading home tomorrow. Ex-cop, in fact.”
“DC?” Harvey asked, thinking they may have crossed paths.
“New York.”
“You sure you’ll be okay at his place tonight?”
“I’ll be fine.”
A cruiser pulled up beside the unmarked car and two uniforms exited. Immediately behind them was another unmarked car. Two plainclothes cops walked over to George Harvey’s vehicle. Harvey opened his door and turned back to Leona before he got out to meet them.
“I’m going to give these guys the key to your place.” He held up the key she had given him a few minutes earlier. “They’ll open it up and check things out, then wait while the CSI guys look for fingerprints on the balcony doors. I’ll give you a lift to your friend’s place, then meet them back at your town house and call you. Let you know what we found.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Not a problem.” He slid out of the car and the five men stood in a circle, talking and nodding. He handed the key across to one of the detectives and then brushed the rain off his coat and got back in the car. “Where to?”
“Brookland area. On Sargent Road. I think it’s a little northeast of Brookland actually. Michigan Park maybe.”
“Good part of town. Have a couple of buddies who live in Brookland. Lots of history.”
She smiled. He was talkative, trying to take her mind off what had happened. “I think Mike said his house was built in the late thirties.”
“Sounds about right.” Harvey launched into a tirade about building standards and how tough it was to get a new home built without wanting to kill the builder by the end of the process.
They talked as he drove and by the time they arrived her nerves were settled a bit and she’d stopped shaking. Harvey had her wait in the car while he retrieved the key from under the flowerpot and made a thorough search of the house. For a few minutes, she was alone with her thoughts. What had just happened was still like a bad dream. She had been stalked in her own house, inches from the outstretched fin gers of a killer. It was absolute insanity. But not everything on her landscape was bleak. At least the Washington police were aware of what was going on and were there for her. Mike Anderson was free and would find his way back to the US. He was resourceful and she wasn’t too worried about not being in the house for his call from the airport. He’d find another way to get a ticket home. She had a safe place to stay, and Detective Harvey had been watchful on the drive over that no one was following them. The killer had no link to Mike Anderson’s house. She was okay for a few days.
But what about after that? What about her job? She couldn’t go in to work. That was the one place where she would be highly visible. There was absolutely no doubt the killer knew where she worked. Hell, every problem—every danger—she faced now, was as a direct result of her job. The damn income trust conversion. She loathed the day Anthony Halladay had walked into her office with the promise of a vice presidency. At that time she hadn’t recognized what accepting that file would mean to her. Looking back now, the writing had been in a large, easy-to-read font.
She remembered the moments leading up to her presentation in Halladay’s office, to a word that had flashed through her mind: chaos. Her life had every appearance of coming apart at the seams, but in retrospect, that had been mild. Everything had spiraled out of control almost from that time on. It was as if someone were trying to douse the fire with gasoline. Everything but an outright admission by the Salt Lake police that Senator Claire Buxton had been murdered to keep the income trust conversion on track. Her narrow escape from death in the stairwell. Two of her staff killed in the explosion.
And her restaurant? What was going to happen there? She should be contacting her insurance company, meeting them at the site, going over damage estimates and figuring out what her policy would cover. She couldn’t d
o it. There was too great a danger that the killer would be watching. She had to stay away from anything predictable right now. No routine that he could figure out and be waiting.
George Harvey appeared on the porch, closed the front door and made his way back to the car. “All clear inside the house.”
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“You’re okay, that’s what counts. I’m going back to your place to see if the guys found anything. I’ll call you on your cell phone.”
She nodded and gave him a quick hug. The action surprised him, but as they broke apart he smiled. She walked up the concrete steps to the older brick town house and let herself in the front door, locking it behind her.
Safe, for now.
55
The phone rang at eleven-thirty. It was an older model with no call display, and Leona considered not answering it. But who would be calling a half hour before midnight? Mike Anderson was the only person she could think of. She answered, relieved to hear his voice on the other end of the line.
“What happened?” he asked. “Why did you leave your place?”
“Someone was in the house. I barely got out. Detective Harvey, he’s the homicide cop I met when I went to the police about Reginald Morgan and Senator Buxton dying, picked me up and drove me to your place.”
“Christ, this guy was in your house? Who is this asshole?” He sounded furious.
“I don’t know, Mike,” she said with a sigh. “The police think he’s Derek Swanson’s paid killer. Swanson insists he’s innocent, says he doesn’t know anything, but the cops are trying to find out who the killer is and tie him back to Swanson.”
“Why doesn’t he stop? He must know the cops are on to him.”
“That’s what George Harvey is wondering. It doesn’t make any sense. The income trust conversion is dead in the water. There’s no upside to these guys killing anyone else.”