by Jeff Buick
Darvin smiled. “That’s exactly what I wanted you to think. I’ll get to that in a minute. Anyway, our parents had a kid—you—and they decided they were too young and too fucked-up to raise you properly. So they gave you up for adoption. They knew who adopted you and watched as you grew up. Then, when they were able to properly raise a child, they had me. But there was a slight problem.”
“What was that?”
“They were still completely fucked-up. Dad worked at the bowling alley, repairing the machines and pins. Mom was a waitress in a crappy little diner on the highway a block from the shit hole I grew up in. Both were alcoholic, Mom was violent, Dad was a sissy, and they both gambled. Growing up in that house was a nightmare that you can’t even begin to imagine. I’m not especially fond of women, courtesy of the queen bitch. And I hate weak men. I don’t like overly strong men, either. In fact, there are very few people I actually like. But while I was being subjected to a hideously cruel childhood, you were having a great life. A membership to the country club and money to burn. Nothing but the finest college for your sorry ass. Polo. You played polo for Christ’s sake. What the hell is polo? Riding around on a horse hitting a ball. How fucking inane is that? Your family was loving and wealthy, ready to hand you whatever you needed to succeed in life. Everything was given to you. Everything. Me, I got nothing.”
“Explains the bitterness,” Derek said, wondering where the man professing to be his brother was going with this.
“So I decided to destroy you. Slowly and methodically. To pull you apart like a bug—a wing here, a leg there. The first thing I needed to do was to get in your life. It was so easy. Remember the redhead at the bar in Clarksburg? I paid her to sleep with you. She was a dirty little whore, Derek. And you screwed her. How many times? How many times, Derek?”
Swanson shook his head. “I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”
“Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven times, you fucker. At five hundred dollars a shot, that was over thirty thousand dollars. But it was money well spent. She connected me to you. And I needed to be there for you when you wanted someone roughed up. But you went even further than I thought you would. You hired me to kill the union guy. Never thought you had it in you.”
“You sick bastard. You paid her?”
Darvin laughed, a strange chortle that echoed about the room. “You should have been in jail years ago, you prick. I dumped the body, then waited a few days, suited up in some scuba gear and untied the rope that attached the guy’s body to the concrete I used to weigh him down. Man, he was gross. Underwater for a couple of weeks really does a number on a body.”
“You unfastened the rope so he’d float to the surface? So the police could tie the murder back to me?”
“Yup. But they messed up the investigation so bad they never managed to connect it back to you. Dumb asses. I gave them everything they needed to convict you, but they were too stupid.”
Swanson swallowed hard. He said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“So go.”
“Untie me.”
“Fuck you. Go in your pants.”
Swanson was trembling with fear. “Darvin, I’m your brother. The only family you have left. If I’d known, I would have come for you. Saved you. I didn’t know. How could I?”
“You would have saved me,” Darvin sneered. “You would have left your life of privilege to help a worthless speck of trailer trash. I don’t think so.”
Swanson took a couple of deep breaths. “You’ve had it tough. I can fix that. Whatever you want, just ask and I’ll make it happen.”
Darvin crossed his right leg over his left and leaned back in the wobbly chair. “All right. I want my childhood back. I want a normal life growing up. I want what you had.”
Sweat beaded on the CEO’s forehead. “You know I can’t give you that,” he said, his voice a whisper.
“Then I guess you can’t make it happen.” Darvin rose and walked to an antique dresser pushed up against an interior wall. He opened a drawer and withdrew a black satchel, then set it on top of the piece of worn furniture and opened the lid. He lifted two knives and held them up, one in each hand, the sun reflecting off the steel. He walked back toward Swanson. “So now we do it my way.”
The odor of urine filled the room.
“I’ve wanted to watch you suffer for so long. I couldn’t wait any longer. I couldn’t wait for the police to arrest you for Morgan or Buxton’s murder. So here we are. You and I, bro.”
“Darvin, don’t do this.”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Darvin set the knives down on his chair and walked the short distance to where the drop sheet covered the piece of furniture. “Before we begin, I’d like you to meet someone.”
He pulled back the sheet. A dried corpse sat in the wheelchair, bony elbows resting on the arms. The empty sockets were staring directly at Derek Swanson, the mouth twisted in a grotesque scream. Lifeless lips were pulled back and yellow teeth hung from the jawbone.
“Say hello to your mother,” Darvin said.
61
“He didn’t say what he wants?” Mike asked, as the doorbell sounded.
Leona shook her head. “Not a word. Just that he wanted to meet.”
Mike answered the door and introduced himself to the man on the stoop. They returned to the front room and George Harvey sat on the couch next to Leona.
“We’ve had a bit of a break on Claire Buxton’s case,”
he said.
“I thought Claire Buxton died in Utah,” Mike interjected.
“Strange you should be working the case.”
Harvey nodded, then spoke directly to Mike Anderson, bringing him up to speed on the file. “The Salt Lake CSI team found some blood in the van that didn’t belong to the senator or her children. On a long shot, we got court approval for a sample of Derek Swanson’s DNA. We never expected them to match.”
“Was it his DNA in Buxton’s van?” Leona asked.
Harvey shook his head. “No, but the two samples were very similar. Far too close to be random.” He asked Leona, “Do you know anything about DNA testing?”
“Not really. What I’ve seen on television.”
“Each of our cells contains a complete strand of our DNA, with the exception of platelets and red blood cells. But blood can still be used as a DNA fingerprint by typing the white blood cells. The Utah police used those cells and came up with a set of thirteen regions, or markers as we call them. We did the same with Derek Swanson’s DNA sample. Then we compared the two.”
“And . . .” Leona said, leaning forward.
“Think of the thirteen markers as lottery balls. To match one out of thirteen is reasonable. Two is still within reason. Three is starting to push the limits of probability. Four and above is beyond random chance. We had a match on nine of thirteen.”
“Nine?” Leona said. “But if it were the same person, wouldn’t all thirteen match?”
Harvey nodded. “Allowing for some contamination in the testing, the match would be very close to thirteen. Nine is low for an exact match, but too high to be random.”
“Whoever was at the van was related to Derek Swanson,” Mike Anderson said. “Father, brother, sister—someone from the same gene pool.”
“That’s what we think,” the DC detective said.
“Any idea who this person is?”
“We’re checking into it. Swanson has no brothers or sisters. At least that’s what we initially thought. Then we found something interesting.” He paused for a moment. “Derek Swanson is adopted. His parents couldn’t have children.”
“Have you found his biological parents?” Mike asked.
Harvey shook his head. “Not yet, but I have a team working on it. I suspect we’ll know sometime today who they are.”
“So if Derek Swanson has a brother or sister, they could be the killer,” Leona said.
“That’s what we’re thinking.”
“So why would this person, this sibling, still want to k
ill Leona?” Mike asked. “Taking her out of the picture isn’t going to resurrect the income trust conversion.”
“Maybe they still think the deal is on,” Harvey said without conviction.
Leona shook her head. “No way. Swanson has an inside man at the bank. He knows the deal is dead.”
“Then there has to be some sort of motivation. Or he would stop.”
“Maybe he’s crazy,” Leona said. “Nothing would surprise me now.”
“Whoever is killing these people is far from crazy,” Harvey said. “Disturbed, sick, demented, without empathy, dangerous—but not crazy. Nutcases don’t plan and implement murders with this degree of precision.”
“Why would he want Leona dead?” Mike asked, thinking out loud. “Money is out. Revenge perhaps?”
“Revenge?”
“He thinks you’ve wronged him—or Swanson.”
They talked in circles for the better part of an hour, no further ahead when they finally wrapped up. Mike and Leona stood on the front stoop with the detective and shook hands.
“You won’t let her out of your sight until we get this guy?” Harvey said.
“Only if she needs to use the ladies’ room,” Mike said.
“Good. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Mike and Leona returned to the house and he put on some coffee. They sat at the kitchen table talking, mostly about Africa. Save Them had been such a bright light in a country that needed illumination. Now it was gone, courtesy of one man’s greed. But that was Africa, where the ones at the top of the food chain ruined lives on the lower rungs. So many innocent and decent people victimized by so few.
“What will you do about the restaurant?” Mike asked, returning the conversation to more local geography.
She shrugged. “I have to talk with the insurance adjusters. If they hedge on paying out I’m finished. I need the money to rebuild.”
“Why wouldn’t they pay?”
“Someone was trying to kill me when they blew up the place. Not exactly the kind of thing that’s covered under clause five, subparagraph nine.”
“I suppose not.”
Leona shook her head. Tyler was so happy when she offered him part of the business. He was young and eager, and she knew the relationship would pay off. Now it was all in jeopardy of disappearing. She closed her eyes and envisioned the dining room before the explosion. Everything in its place—knives and forks carefully positioned by the plates. Water and wineglasses. Crisp, white tablecloths and soft music playing on the sound system.
She sucked in a breath and her eyes flew open.
“I know who it is,” she said. “I remember where I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The person trying to kill me. I’d seen him somewhere before. I recognized his hair. It was so perfect, every individual strand in its place.”
“Where did you see him?” Mike asked.
“At the restaurant. He was in for dinner about a week ago.” She wracked her brain, trying to remember. “Thursday night. I spoke with him.” She went pale. “Oh, God.”
“What?” Anderson asked.
She slumped down in her chair. “I told him everything he needed to know to kill me. We were talking about the restaurant and he asked about the menu. I said that my cook designed it, but I went over it with him every Saturday morning.”
“Saturday morning,” Anderson said quietly. “He used that to time the explosion.”
“Oh, God.” She fought back the tears. “I gave him what he needed to kill my kitchen staff.”
Anderson’s facial features hardened. “You didn’t do this, Leona. He did. He set the explosion and pushed the button. He killed those men, not you.”
“Mike, that poor woman. Her husband dead. Her child’s father.”
Mike Anderson slipped his arms around her and pulled her close. She burrowed her face into his chest and felt her body jerking as she sobbed. She was a dear friend, and it hurt so much to see her in such pain. Leona was a strong woman, but he knew better than most that everyone had their breaking points. As he held her close, he prayed that she hadn’t reached hers.
62
Mike Anderson.
Darvin smiled and pushed the paper aside, then took a drink from the glass of wine. Drops of blood ran down his arm onto the table. One of the droplets merged with another on the smooth wood surface. He would have to clean the red splotches with disinfectant. The kitchen table was no place for blood, even if it was his brother’s. He stared at his hands, covered with spatters and streaks of dried and fresh blood. His session with Derek Swanson had taken almost three hours. That seemed long, even for him. He wondered how long it had seemed to the grotesquely disfigured man in the chair. Probably like a year.
Good. He deserved it.
Darvin looked at the paper and read the name again. Mike Anderson. Yes, it was the one. He was sure of it. When his contact at the phone company had called with the four names, he thought Anderson’s sounded familiar. Now he knew why. When he had researched Leona Hewitt, the one aspect of her life that was in the public domain was her charity. Save Them was a nonprofit organization with ties to Kenya. And Mike Anderson was an employee of that charity. The liaison to Kenya. Which would explain the call on her phone that had originated in Germany. Anderson was on his way home.
Stay in Africa, Darvin thought. It’s much safer.
The blood was beginning to crust over and having it on his skin was no longer a nice feeling. He set the empty wineglass on the table and headed for the shower. Half an hour later he walked out the front door of his house with Mike Anderson’s address in his pocket, courtesy of Leona’s Microsoft Outlook contact list. It was six-thirty. An hour into Washington, then time to find Mike Anderson’s house. Lots of time for dinner. He settled into the driver’s seat, then turned to look at the house. A simple-looking farmhouse from the exterior. Yet inside was part of a man, hovering close to death. Darvin hoped he wouldn’t die before he took care of business in the city and returned. Round two would be fun.
He drove with the car on cruise, five miles an hour over the speed limit. Cops got suspicious when you drove exactly the posted speed, and they pulled you over if you exceeded it by more than ten or fifteen. Five was perfect. Don’t weave and keep to five over—they’ll never stop you. He glanced at the gun and knife sitting on the passenger’s seat. This was not one car they wanted to stop anyway. Go have a donut and a coffee, finish your shift and head home to see your wife. There was a good chance none of that would happen if they stopped him.
He skirted Alexandria on the 495, then cut north on the 295 into the city, paralleling the Anacostia River. At the end of the park he backtracked slightly on the 50, then turned onto Dakota Avenue. He stopped at the Franciscan Monastery to check where he had to turn. It was dusk and the street signs were difficult to read. He passed Sargent Road on purpose, but missed the turn at Twelfth Street. He continued on another block and turned right on Eleventh, then doubled back two blocks to Sargent. He squinted until he saw a couple of house numbers in the low light. From that he figured out which way to turn, then scanned the street intently both ways before pulling out. He cruised at the speed limit past Mike Anderson’s house. The living-room light was on and the shades were pulled tight. He drove two blocks farther, turned around and checked it out one more time. If the lights were on, the chances were that Mike Anderson was home. And Leona Hewitt was most likely with him.
Darvin accelerated slightly after he passed the house. This would be so easy. But first he needed to eat. Never kill on an empty stomach. It was a rule. His rule. There didn’t have to be a reason for it to be a rule. It just was. He smiled. What a great business. No boss. No set hours. The only real downside was no benefits. And twenty-five to life if he ever got caught.
Leona watched Mike check his gun. It fit perfectly in his hand, just the right size so it didn’t look too large or too small. The wood grip molded to his hand, the smooth curves fitting every crease in his time-worn
palm. An untouched glass of whiskey sat on the table next to him. When he was finished oiling the weapon and checking the action, he set it on the table and picked up the glass. He took a small sip, then set it down.
“Nerves,” he said to Leona. “Helps calm them.”
“You? I’m surprised. Ex-cop and all. I thought this would be old hat to you.”
He managed a slight smile. “Never gets to that point. If it does, you get hurt or killed. Every cop will tell you that complacency is dangerous.”
“So we sit here and wait?” she asked.
“We could check into a hotel if you want.”
“Is that necessary?”
Anderson shrugged. “I don’t know. Now that they know the guy trying to kill you is Derek Swanson’s relative, George Harvey and his guys should be able to track him down in a reasonable length of time. Probably quicker than he can find us.”
“You think so?” She sounded worried.
“I hope so. No guarantees.” He held up the gun. “That’s what this is for.”
“They’re horrible things,” Leona said. “Guns.”
“Depends entirely upon which end is pointing at you.”
George Harvey gripped the phone like a vise, listening to the woman’s voice, and despising everything about it.
“I can’t release the information without checking with my superior, Detective.” There was a slight drawl in the singsong chatter. “And there’s no way that will happen until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Even then, you may need a court order.”
“Please have your boss call me the moment she gets in,” he said civilly. “A woman’s life is at stake.”
“I’ll pass the information along. Whether she calls or not is up to her, Detective.”
“That’s not good enough. What’s her direct line?”
“You’ll have to go through the switchboard. We don’t give out direct lines.”
“What time do you open in the morning?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Please put a note on her desk that I’ll be calling at one minute after eight. I need a name and an address, and I need it quickly.” Harvey’s face was red and his teeth clenched. He was struggling now to keep his cool.