Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  “What do you know about the Oman deal?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I work on Duncan’s side of the firm. David and Brent work for Daryl Koven. Our business has many sensitive issues, so each partner is treated like a separate silo.”

  Pia leaned back and waited.

  “I was there because I thought you’d clear Jacob by finding David’s killer. I was hoping to find out who did it.”

  A moment later, the pilot announced their landing approach to Metz-Nancy-Lorraine airport.

  Wind whipped the coats of Pia and her group as they stood in the predawn dark before the square-lattice ironwork of Château de Malbrouck. Tania reached around Carlos and shook the castle gate again.

  He gave her a scowl over his shoulder. “You think I do that wrong too?”

  Tania turned up her nose.

  Rip Blackson dialed his phone and spoke to someone. When he clicked off, he reported to the group. “He was asleep.”

  A blast of icy air howled across the courtyard and through the gate.

  A few minutes later, a man with an electric lantern staggered from the nearest tower. Lightly dressed and disheveled clothes, he stopped three yards from the entry tunnel and squinted at Pia’s party of five. He approached as if they were wild animals until his light cast a brighter light on their faces.

  Looking at Tania, the man slurred his words. “Well, well, well. Ain’t you the, the, hottie?” He balanced the lamp on his head and rested his hands in the iron grate. He pressed his face in for a better look. “You gotta be. Be really anxious—visiting this time of night.”

  Ugly scars ran across either side of his face where he once had ears.

  His eyes stopped rolling and focused. His mouth dropped open.

  “I’ll be damned.” Tania grabbed one of his hands. “Kasey Earl. You’re still alive? And someone gave you the keys to the gate?”

  Kasey tried to pull away. “Hey now, you got no call—”

  Carlos reached through the ironwork to grab the lantern as it fell.

  “Open the gate, Kasey,” Blackson said. He turned to Tania. “He works for us. Security.”

  “It’s a wonder you’re still alive,” Tania said.

  Kasey dropped the keys. Weaving in place, he bent to pick them up and missed on the first pass. His hands dangled above the ground while he inhaled and began a second attempt that sounded, judging from his breathing, as if he were bench-pressing three hundred pounds.

  Blackson said, “Have you been drinking?”

  “Hey, I ain’t on duty.” Kasey glanced up and pointed vaguely at Tania. “It’s. It’s. Fuck. She cut my ears off.”

  “Wrong,” Tania said. “Jacob took one of them off before I had the chance.”

  Blackson watched her while Kasey fumbled the key into the lock and managed to turn it, then yanked it open.

  Kasey reached for the lantern. Carlos waved him off and kept it.

  “You know the trouble with partying all night?” Kasey asked Blackson as they followed him in.

  “You get fired in the morning?”

  “Nah, that’s not it. Trouble. Trouble is. Liquor’s a liar. He makes you think you’re golden but when the hot chicks get here, you don’t have a chance.”

  “As if.” Tania shoved his shoulder, spinning him around.

  Pia stepped between them. Kasey Earl looked up at her and squinted.

  She said, “We have an appointment to see Tom Duncan.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Marthe Koven stood in the dark, a full step back from the second-floor window watching her wind-whipped visitors. When she heard the word “appointment”, she turned to her husband and whispered. “Go. Now.”

  Daryl Koven disappeared down the dark hall stairs, emerging beneath her a moment later wearing his heavy trench coat. His boots crunched through the snow on the paving stones as he greeted his guests.

  Rip Blackson set the pace alongside the security guard, Kasey.

  A handsome, barrel-chested man with broad shoulders in a shimmering suit was flanked by a tall, athletic girl wearing an open duster. She walked with the silky, confident gait of a tiger stalking her prey.

  A shiver ran down Marthe’s spine.

  She knew those two without any introduction.

  In front of them, an exotic, multiracial woman with a mane of dark curly hair flowing over her shoulders examined every nook and cranny in the courtyard. At the back, a Mexican who looked out of place in the entourage.

  Marthe bit her fingernail.

  “Welcome.” She heard her husband’s words filtered through the window. “Welcome to the Château de Malbrouck and the Future Crossroads Symposium. You must be cold and tired. Please, come with me. The Great Hall is right this way.”

  He gestured toward a door, the wind snapping his clothes. The group started in. He held out a hand. “Not you, Kasey.”

  “I’ll get Duncan then.”

  “You’re finished for the night,” Daryl said.

  Kasey waved dismissively and stumbled away in the dark.

  Without warning, Pia Sabel stared directly into Marthe’s window. As if the girl had the instincts of a supernatural predator and could sense Marthe’s presence.

  Marthe stepped back.

  As Pia walked around her husband, Marthe heard him speak. “Ms. Sabel, so good of you to come. If I’d known you were meeting Tom, I’d have woken him so he could greet you himself.”

  Marthe inched closer to the window.

  Pia Sabel stared at her husband.

  She had seen the Sabel girl on TV. A small athlete on a large field of grass. In person, she was different. Even from her high angle, she could tell the girl was a couple of inches taller than Daryl. Her gaze pierced the man as if she could look inside him and read his soul.

  The girl went inside without speaking or breaking stride.

  Marthe pulled her robe tighter and hugged herself.

  “I’ll wake Mr. Duncan,” Blackson said. “You have plenty of work ahead of you.”

  “What I do is more joy than work,” Daryl said. “But, thank you, I’ll see to the guests. He’s in the adjoining tower.”

  Blackson tilted into the wind.

  Daryl checked the courtyard then disappeared from her view. When she heard the door close, Marthe ran down the steps and down the dark, cramped connecting hall. She stopped before the edge of light in the well-lit Great Room and found a sleepy servant. Tugging the girl’s arm, she ordered her to make coffee.

  She pressed her cheek to the stone and peered around the corner, assessing her guests from the shadow. She took a deep breath to fill herself with resolve. She would need to establish herself as the hostess and find a way to keep the Sabel girl in her place.

  The object of her concern stood in the center of the space, admiring the hand-hewn beams that arched to the ceiling.

  Her husband crossed to the girl and looked up. “The place was a ruin a hundred years ago. The restoration started in 1991 and lasted until ’98. They were faithful to the architecture of late fifteenth century—”

  “Were you close to David Gottleib, Mr. Koven?” Pia asked, her gaze still on the woodwork above.

  Marthe tensed. Daryl was hardly the master of debate when pitted against a woman’s carefully constructed interrogation.

  “He worked for me,” Daryl said. “I’d known him for almost a decade.”

  “Was he a valuable employee?”

  “Of course. One of our best.”

  Pia faced him. “Why didn’t you postpone your symposium for his funeral?”

  Daryl opened his mouth. And closed it. Marthe could almost see his words winging back to his brain for reevaluation. After considering his response, he said, “The people attending later today are very important people. You don’t reschedule on the rich and powerful.”

  “What makes us rich and powerful is the quality of our friends. Don’t they deserve a day of mourning?”

  Marthe cursed herself for not postponing two weeks. She’d been t
oo eager for Daryl’s moment to come.

  Daryl studied his questioner. “Well, I guess you could—”

  Shouts rang from the courtyard. The door flew open.

  Blackson staggered in. “Call 9-1-1, I mean, 1-1-2. Duncan’s been murdered! Oh god. Shot in the face. The blood. It’s awful.”

  The Sabel agents moved into defensive positions on either side of the Sabels, facing opposite directions, their weapons drawn and ready. Marthe both feared and admired their instant efficiency.

  “What?” Daryl screamed. “My god, man, don’t joke about a thing like that.”

  “He’s dead. It was horrible, horrible. I can’t describe it. Where’s Brent?”

  “I don’t understand. Duncan was fine when he turned in.”

  “Go see for yourself.” Blackson dialed his phone. As it connected, he shouted to the servant. “Find Brent Zola.”

  Daryl ran outside. Pia guided Blackson to a table and pulled a chair for him. He dropped into it.

  Marthe realized Pia was taking on the role of hostess due to her absence. She glanced down at her nightgown and robe. It would have to do. With her black hair flowing behind her, she ran straight to Blackson.

  “What happened? Why are you shouting?” Marthe asked.

  Blackson looked up, the phone still pressed to his ear. Holding a finger to her, he spoke to the emergency operator. “I must report a murder at the Château de Malbrouck.”

  Brent Zola joined them, out of breath from running. He asked, “Who?”

  “Duncan.” Blackson returned to the phone.

  “At our symposium?” Marthe fell into the chair next to him and slumped, her gaze swept the floor.

  She turned to Pia. “Who are you?”

  Pia introduced herself and her father. “If there’s anything we can do to help.”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” Marthe asked. “Wasn’t it one of your people who killed David Gottleib?”

  “No,” Blackson and Zola said in unison.

  “If you need anything at all.” Pia backed away a respectful distance.

  Several shots, muffled by the stone walls, rang out. First one, then a second. After short moment, two more followed by another pause and two more.

  Marthe observed each person in the room as they recognized the noise. There would be no hiding it. Where Duncan’s murder had been late at night and inside a chamber within a chamber, these shots came from the outer room and Daryl, in his haste, left all the doors open.

  Instantly, the multiracial woman ran to the door.

  “Guard them,” Pia told her other agent, pointing to Marthe and the others, then followed her bodyguard.

  The Mexican surveyed his charges.

  Marthe rose. “I’m going with them.”

  The Mexican said, “It might not be safe out—”

  “It’s my event, my responsibility.” She left, closing the door behind her as quietly as she could to avoid alerting the Sabel girl.

  Across the courtyard, she found the tower door standing open. She slipped inside, took off her wet shoes, and tiptoed up the cold stone stairs. The spiral led her to a position where she could observe the girl and her bodyguard. One crouched low, the other stood tall, ready to burst in on Daryl.

  Marthe thought hard. There were so many ways things could go wrong but at some point, she had to trust her husband.

  Operating on some sort of telepathy, the two women burst into the outer chamber of Duncan’s room. The multiracial girl rolled in low to the right, while the Sabel girl swung in left. Their guns swept the room.

  “PUT YOUR WEAPON ON THE FLOOR NOW!” The guard yelled in a commanding voice.

  Marthe flinched.

  “I don’t know if they’re still dangerous.” Daryl’s voice sounded strained.

  “PUT YOUR WEAPON ON THE FLOOR! DO IT NOW!” the agent repeated.

  “It’s OK,” Daryl said. “I’ve got them.”

  Marthe tiptoed to the doorframe and stood behind the half-open door. She peered through the gap between the door and jamb. Daryl was bent at the waist. He rose slowly, his hands above him.

  The Sabel agent kicked his gun out of reach. “What were you picking up when I came in?”

  “I was checking their pulses,” Daryl said. “I think they’re dead.”

  The agent relaxed her stance but pressed her muzzle to Daryl’s chest, aimed at his heart, and studied the room.

  The Sabel girl loosened the weapons from the dead men’s grip, leaving them near the bodies but out of reach in case the men weren’t dead. She pressed her fingers to their necks.

  She looked up at Marthe’s hiding place, her gaze drilling through her, but said nothing.

  Daryl headed for the door. “Are the police—”

  “Don’t move,” the agent said. “Until the police arrive, you stay right here.”

  “What?” Daryl asked. “Why? There won’t be any questions. They tried to kill me to cover up their crime. Surely you can see that.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Marthe closed her eyes and prayed he would keep his mouth shut.

  “Can I sit for a moment and collect my wits?” Daryl asked.

  “No.”

  The Sabel girl crossed to the door, looking through the jamb’s narrow slot. “You don’t have to stay back there, Ms. Koven, but you don’t want to see this.”

  “Is my husband hurt?”

  “As you might expect in a shooting of this type—he’s unscathed.”

  The Sabel girl’s eyes could penetrate steel. She felt the girl’s stare reach inside her and read her part in the conspiracy as if it were written in a book.

  Marthe shivered again.

  She stepped out from behind the door and kept her head down, averting her gaze from the dead men.

  “Oh, no, Marthe,” Daryl said. “This is no place for you.”

  “I want to see,” she said. “I made the arrangements for this castle, I’m liable for what happens here.”

  “What’s that on your wrist?” Pia asked.

  Marthe tugged her sleeve down. “Moisturizer, I just woke up.”

  She pulled up her chin and walked in.

  The Sabel girl stepped back, allowing Marthe to see the room. The gore was appalling. Two bodies were sprawled on the floor, one flat, the rug beneath him soaked in blood. The other man was sprawled between the chair and floor. Blood soaked the chair’s seat cushion.

  Daryl watched her take it all in. “My dear, you should wait with the others. The police will be here shortly.”

  “No. I want to be here.” She reached out and grabbed his hand.

  She turned to the Sabel agent. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Marthe Koven.”

  “Tania Cooper.” The agent glanced her way then spoke to Daryl. “How did this go down?”

  “I rushed in,” Daryl said. “I didn’t notice them in the outer chamber, but I think they were in these chairs, sleeping. I don’t remember. Anyway, I ran to Tom’s bedside. You can see the blood and bone. Oh god. It’s as if a shining light has gone out. I can’t believe they would kill him.”

  The Sabel girl edged around the bodies and went into the bedroom. Marthe wanted to stop her but could think of no good reason. While they weren’t official detectives, security was their business.

  “Who are these guys?” Tania pointed at the bodies.

  “Velox Deployment guards. I don’t know their names.”

  “You rushed in, saw the body, then what?”

  “I appreciate your experience,” Marthe said, “but I’d rather wait for the gendarmes.”

  “I was an Army MP. I’ve investigated more murders than the local cops by a long shot. Let me help you out.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you,” Daryl said. “We’ll wait.”

  “You’re in France,” Tania said. “You get thirty minutes with a lawyer for every twenty-four hours they hold you for interrogation. They can hold you up to ninety-six hours before determining if they want
to press charges. You can remain silent during questioning, but in this country, that works against you.”

  Daryl nodded and squeezed Marthe’s hand. “There was Duncan, just lying there, covered in blood, murdered, his head blown open…” Daryl took a moment. “I was shocked, sickened, furious, all at once. I lost it. I stormed back in here and demanded to know what happened. I shook one of them until he woke up.” Koven gestured and turned away. “When they realized they’d been caught, they turned aggressive and threatened me.”

  “How did it escalate to gunfire?”

  “It happened so fast.” Daryl looked at his hands, turning them over as if he’d never seen them before. “They were yelling and the guns came out. One of them shot and missed me. I guess I shot him.”

  “Was he standing, or lying down?”

  “That’s enough,” Marthe said. “He doesn’t have to explain anything to you.”

  The Sabel girl returned from the bedroom. Her gaze rose above and behind Marthe’s head.

  Marthe turned to see what held her interest but saw only a chip in the stone wall. When she looked back, the Sabel girl was snapping pictures of the artwork, the walls, and the bodies.

  “Stop that,” Marthe said. “You have no right to take pictures.”

  The girl shrugged and pushed her phone into her jacket pocket.

  Daryl glared at Tania. “I’m not going to say anything more. Get out.”

  The Sabel girl tugged Tania’s sleeve and the two women left down the stairwell.

  CHAPTER 11

  Traffic honked down K Street and wipers smacked the midday sleet from their windshields as I slammed the guy against the trash bin in the alley. I pressed the back of my knife to his throat. My victim was a short, thin fellow with thick brow ridges accented by a v-shaped scar in the middle. His eyebrows arched to the top of his head but his heart rate remained calm.

  “Why do you find me so interesting, Skippy?” I asked.

  “Money’s in my pocket, sir. Please don’t hurt me.”

  There was a sneer in his voice.

  A guy who didn’t quiver when attacked was not the kind of guy I expected to follow me through the Metro and around a four-block circle. I had him pegged for a Fed. If you pull a knife on a Fed, he pulls some ID and starts throwing his weight around, because it’s going to be career limiting when his boss finds out. The guy I held by the hair was mocking me, feigning fear as he calculated how to reach the pistol in his coat pocket.