Authors: Jeff Buick
Darvin hated the room. It reeked of hotel sex.
Not present-time sex, but of the hundreds of times men and women had sweated and cum all over each other on the bed. He could
smell it, like a festering sore on rotting flesh. Six hours in the room and he was long past the point of thinking clearly.
He closed his eyes and saw women bent over the bed, men behind them, hammering their weapons into hot, willing pussies. He
forced his eyes open, hating every graphic image.
At six o’clock, Darvin got up and showered. His penis hung like a limp rag and he tried to make it hard by thinking of the
one time he’d put it in a woman. Nothing. He finished washing and turned off the water. As he rubbed the towel over his skin
he remembered slicing her neck open and watching her gasp for air. Her arms flailing about as she died, and her body going
slack as he ejaculated inside her. He glanced down. His manhood was fully erect.
“Mother wouldn’t have liked her,” he said as he jerked off. “She was so dirty.” He moaned as he climaxed, then pulled on his
underwear and walked back into the bedroom. The smells were still overpowering and he felt nauseous.
It took him less than five minutes to pack and leave the room. The sun was up and burning off the morning haze. He drove to
the outskirts of the city before stopping at a roadside diner for breakfast. He spread the papers from Leona Hewitt’s town
house on the table as he picked at his bacon and eggs. The last incoming call was from a European number. The country code
indicated the call had originated in Germany, and less than twenty minutes before he pulled it off her phone. He scanned down
the other nineteen numbers on the list. Seven were the same, and he checked the phone book for the number to her restaurant.
It matched. He scratched them off the list. Two other entries were the same and he recognized the number—the main line to
the Washington Police Department. The calls that had tied Derek Swanson to the murders of Reginald Morgan and Senator Claire
Buxton. Smart girl, this Leona Hewitt.
He drew a line through another five numbers, all from her office at DC Trust. Her support staff calling her to check on things.
One was from a 1–866 number—probably some telemarketing firm. That left four numbers, all different. She didn’t use her home
phone all that often, and the oldest recorded number went back a full month to July 6. Darvin circled the four remaining numbers
and dialed out on his cell phone. A man’s voice answered.
“Greg, it’s Darvin.”
“Oh, you,” the voice went up an octave. “Where have you been? You disappeared. Gone in the morning. I was devastated.”
“Get over it,” Darvin said icily. “Listen, I need a favor.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were using me.” There was a teasing tone to the voice.
Darvin ignored the flirting. “Can you run four numbers through your system and get me names and addresses?”
“When I get to the office. I’m at home right now.”
“Sometime today would be good.”
“Just because I work for the phone company doesn’t mean I have nothing to do.”
“How long will it take you to pull four numbers off your computer?” Darvin wanted to leap through the phone line and strangle
the talker.
“I can do it today. I was just teasing. Why are you so abrupt? It doesn’t suit you.”
“Sorry. I’m busy. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s okay. What are the numbers?”
Darvin recited the phone numbers and hung up. He had other things to do today. Important things. It was time to close a chapter
of his life. One that should have been closed years ago. He paid the waitress and left her a decent tip for keeping his coffee
topped up. A gas station was attached to one side of the diner and he pulled up to the pump and filled the car. He had a three-hour
drive ahead of him. The road was familiar and the weather was nice. Perfect day for an outing.
In fact, it was a perfect day to take care of something that had been burning inside him for over thirty years.
Leona woke and looked about the room, wondering where she was. It took a few seconds, then she remembered. Mike Anderson’s
guest room. She glanced at the alarm clock on the night table. Seven-twenty. She rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
The shower invigorated her and twenty minutes later she was wide-awake. At eight she called the office and asked for Anthony
Halladay. The receptionist rerouted the call to his private line.
“Leona,” Halladay said. “What can I do for you?”
“I won’t be in today,” she said. “Something’s come up. I need to take a few days off.”
“What’s wrong? Is this to do with Derek Swanson—with what you told me yesterday?” the CEO asked.
“Yes. It’s related. I’d rather not say any more. I need some time off. You can mark it down as holidays.”
“Usually we get some advance notice.”
“Sorry, not this time.”
“When will you be back?”
“Next week.” It was lip service. She had no idea when it would be safe for her to return.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you next Monday.”
“Okay.” He sounded hesitant, confused.
She set the phone back in its cradle and stiffened. There was a noise from the front of the house. Boards squeaking under
weight. Someone was on the porch. She peeked around the door frame between the kitchen and the living room. The door handle
was turning and she could see a shape outlined through the window in the upper half of the door. The gun—it was upstairs in
the bedroom and impossible to retrieve in time. She raced across the kitchen to the butcher’s block on the counter and pulled
out the largest knife. The blade was ten inches and the edge looked clean and recently sharpened. She moved back toward the
door as the sound of footsteps echoed through the living room. The knife was at chest level, horizontal, ready to slash across
the chest area. Even if he could get his hands up, she’d cut his arms, try to disarm him if he had a weapon.
Leona reached the doorway as the man entered. The knife flashed forward, then she pulled back. It sliced harmlessly through
the air. He yelled and took a sluggish step back, banging into the far side of the doorjamb and tumbling to the floor. He
lay there, staring wide-eyed at her.
“Sorry,” she said, letting the knife fall to her side.
“Who are you?” He was at least sixty-five, with thinning gray hair and dressed in light green work pants and a plaid shirt.
He looked terrified.
“Who am I? Who are you?” Leona asked.
“John Fisher. Mike’s neighbor. I come in to check the place every day.”
“Leona. I’m Mike’s boss. Sort of.”
“Oh, the elephant charity lady.” He leaned on one hand and pushed up onto his knees, then stood up. “What’s with the knife?”
“I didn’t expect anyone. You scared me.”
“Ditto,” he said. Fisher looked around and shrugged. “Everything looks okay.”
She nodded. “It’s fine. Thanks for checking in.”
“Sure. When will Mike be back home?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Oh, he’s back today.”
“Yes. I’m killing a bit of time, waiting for him.”
“Okay.” Fisher walked to the front door. He gave her a final smile and left, closing the door behind him.
Quiet settled in again. Leona shuffled to the couch and dropped onto the cushion. She looked down at the knife, dangling from
her hand. Upstairs, under the pillow she’d slept on, was a loaded gun. It was Monday morning and she had called in because
a killer might be watching her office. Not exactly a normal start to a workweek.
Anthony Halladay sat at his desk, staring out the window at the surrounding buildings. Sun glinted off the reflective glass
across the street. How many times had he looked at those windows, thinking of the mundane lives of the office drones who worked
there? Now, that anonymity looked pretty good. He was at the top, poised to crash. There would be no stopping it now. If Leona
Hewitt was too scared to show up for work, Swanson’s man was still after her. Derek hadn’t been able to reel him in.
Leona Hewitt was not going to survive.
When she died, the DC homicide police would be all over the case. His connection back to Derek Swanson would eventually be
uncovered. He was ruined. Financially, he would survive, but socially, he would be a pariah. Shunned, the one left standing
when the music stopped.
He thought of the gun in his home safe. The easy way out. Maybe, but not yet. He’d wait until Leona was dead and the police
were at the door.
“Anything happen last night?” George Harvey asked.
The detective, a junior in the department, shook his head. “All quiet. Lights went out about midnight and there was no activity.
The next-door neighbor went in through the front door about ten minutes after eight this morning. He had a key. Came out five
minutes later.”
“Checking on the place?”
“I’d say.”
“Thanks for staking it out overnight,” Harvey said. “Submit the overtime hours. I’ll make sure it gets through.”
“Sure. I’m going home to sleep for a couple of hours. I’ll be back in after lunch.”
“See you then.”
Harvey leaned back in his chair, his hands cupped around the crown of his head, fingers interlocked. He hadn’t told Leona
Hewitt a man was watching Mike Anderson’s house for good reason. He wanted her alert, not dropping her guard because she felt
protected. It was impossible for one man to watch the front and rear of the house, but getting one of his detectives on short
notice for an unauthorized surveillance had been tough. Two would have been impossible.
Leona’s friend, the ex–New York cop, was due home today. That took some of the pressure off his department. If he were in
town and close to her, the killer would have to deal with him. It was almost like having one of his men shadowing her, but
without the cost.
He tipped forward, unclasped his hands and dialed the number Leona had given him. She answered on the second ring, her voice
uncertain.
“It’s George Harvey,” he said. “I wanted to follow up on what we found at your house last night.”
“Anything to identify him?” she asked.
“No. No fingerprints on the upper balcony doors and no fingerprints on your telephone. Including yours. It was wiped clean.
You don’t have a habit of wiping off your telephone after you use it, do you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What does that mean? That he wiped off my telephone?”
“Your phone holds the last twenty incoming numbers. I suspect he touched the buttons necessary to pull those numbers off your
phone, then wiped it off to erase his prints.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Anyone who called you, aside from telemarketers, know you. If he could trace their numbers, he may get your location. Has
your friend where you’re staying called you recently?”
“Not in the last month. He’s been in Africa since the second week in July.” She was about to tell him that her home phone
wasn’t a busy line as most of her calls came to her cell phone, but he was already talking.
“That’s good. We’re probably okay then.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “When is your friend arriving?”
“He should be here by noon.”
“Call me when he gets there. I’ll feel better knowing he’s with you.”
“Sure. Thanks, Detective Harvey. I appreciate your concern.”
“You’re welcome.”
A CSI tech entered the room as he replaced the phone. The midthirties woman was carrying a thin folder and wearing a puzzled
expression. Her name was Arlene, and she worked a lot of the homicide cases. Harvey liked and respected her.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Results of the two DNA samples.” She flipped open the file. “Derek Swanson’s and the blood traces in the van that Claire
Buxton was driving.” She handed him two sheets of paper. “Take a look at this.”
He took the papers and scanned the contents. After twenty seconds, he looked up at her. “Are you sure this is right?”
She nodded. “When we saw the results, we ran the entire analysis again. There is no error.”
“This is incredible.”
She nodded again. “Very.”
Mike Anderson cleared customs and headed for the closest phone. He dialed his home number and waited. When Leona picked up,
he breathed a quick sigh of relief.
“You made it through the night okay?”
“I did. A little glitch in the morning when John showed up. I almost ran him through with one of your knives.”
“Oh, shit, I forgot about him. He okay?”
“Yeah. What about me? I could have been killed.”
“You could have . . .” Silence, then, “Funny. Glad you’ve still got your sense of humor.”
“You at the airport?”
“Yup. I’m going to grab a cab. I’ll be at the house in about an hour.”
“See you then. Make sure you knock. I have a knife in one hand and a loaded gun in the other.”
“My kind of gal.”
“You wish.” She set the phone down and collapsed back into the armchair. Her gaze was angled up, toward the ceiling and she
focused on the light fixture in the foyer. It was a chandelier-style piece with little dangly crystal balls that refracted
the light and threw faded spectrums across the upper walls. Hideous was a mild word for it.
“If I get out of this alive,” Leona muttered under her breath to no one. “I’m going to redecorate this place.”
Darvin pulled up in front of Derek Swanson’s house mid-afternoon. Traffic was moving well and he had made good time on the
165-mile trek from Washington to Morgantown. Swanson’s Porsche sat in the driveway. That was good, although he would have
waited for the man to return home from work if necessary. He pulled up beside the car and walked to the front door. A quick
touch on the doorbell set the chimes in motion. He could hear them through the thick, wood door. After about thirty seconds
there was a noise from inside the house, then the door swung open. Derek Swanson stood in the doorway, his cell phone attached
to his ear. Shock registered on his face, then anger.
“I’ve got to go,” he said into the phone. He snapped it shut and slipped it in his pocket. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Killing you,” Darvin said, shoving Swanson back into the house. A gun appeared in his hand, and he flipped the safety off
and pushed the end of the barrel against Swanson’s head. “But not quite yet.”
They were inches apart and Darvin could smell the fear. He loved the odor—thrived on it. He had yet to kill a person up close
who didn’t reek of fear just before they died.
“Move.” He pushed the gun against Swanson’s head so hard it left a red circle when the other man broke away and walked backward
into the house. Darvin spun Swanson around and lowered the gun to his back. “The kitchen.”
They walked through the formal dining room to the kitchen; an open expanse with a central island and walls of cabinetry. Stainless-steel
appliances were tucked into the maple cabinets and the granite countertops reflected the midday sun pouring in the windows.
“I’m thirsty,” Darvin said, leaning against the island. “Get me something to drink.” He waited a second, then added, “Please.”
Derek Swanson’s hands were shaking as he opened the fridge and took out a pitcher of lemonade. He set it on the counter, removed
a glass from one of the upper cabinets and poured. He held it out but Darvin shook his head.
“Set it on the counter and back off. And get another glass down while you’re there. I don’t like to drink alone.”
“It’s lemonade, not alcohol.”
“I don’t care. Pour a glass for yourself.”
Swanson complied, then backed off a few feet. Darvin kept the gun leveled and pointing at the other man as he walked over
to the counter. He stared down at the two glasses of lemonade for a few seconds, then opened the cabinet and took out another
glass. He set it on the counter and pushed. It slid along the smooth surface to Swanson.
“Put some ice in the glass and slide it back,” Darvin said.
Swanson turned and filled the glass from the ice dispenser on the front of the fridge, then pushed it along the counter to
the killer. Darvin tipped the glass and added ice to both glasses. He took a sip from his and backed off to the island, glass
in one hand, gun in the other.
“Drink your lemonade,” he said.
“What do you want with me?” Swanson took a couple of steps and picked up the glass. “Why don’t you go away?”
“What do I want with you?” Darvin repeated. “That’s a good question. I don’t think I’m quite ready to answer it yet. But I
can tell you why I won’t go away.” He sipped the lemonade and puckered his lips. “Not enough sugar, Derek.”
“You don’t have to drink it.” Swanson downed a third of his glass in one draught. His throat was suddenly dry.
“You irritate me. That’s part of the reason why I’m not leaving. You think that because you have money, you can do whatever
the hell you want.
Things aren’t going well with the
trust conversion
—
I think I’ll have someone murdered.
That kind of thinking pisses people off. Maybe not everyone, but it pisses me off, and right now, that’s what counts.”
“I never asked you to kill Senator Buxton or Leona Hewitt. You undertook that all on your own.”
“Are you saying that independent thinking is bad? You were poised to make a quick fifty million dollars. I saw an opportunity
to help make that happen and I went for it. In your business they call that entrepreneurship. People are rewarded for that
sort of thinking.”
“I produce electricity. You murder people. There’s a difference.” Swanson took another drink, then said, “Stop killing people.
There’s nothing to gain from it.”
Darvin wagged the gun at Swanson. “Why don’t you stop thinking like an executive? Not everything is based on the bottom line.
Money isn’t always the motivator.”
“Why else would you kill someone, Darvin?” Swanson asked. “Rage, jealousy, hate might work, but Leona Hewitt is none of those
to you. There’s no upside financially and there is no other reason to want her dead. Leave her alone.”
Darvin shook his head. “Pride. You forgot pride.”
“What’s pride got to do with this?” He finished the lemonade and set the empty glass on the counter.
“I have never taken on an assignment and not completed it.”
Swanson’s mouth dropped open. “What? You’re going to kill an innocent person to keep your record of consecutive kills intact?
Are you insane?”
Darvin’s eyes clouded over and his voice changed pitch—deeper, and the words were clipped, his mouth contorting into a sneer
as he spoke. “You can’t save it. No one can save it.”
Swanson instinctively backed away from his unwelcome visitor. “
It?
You called her
it
. What the fuck is that all about? Serial killers talk like that.” Swanson grabbed the counter and ran his free hand across
his forehead. “Holy shit, what’s going on?” His knees buckled and he fell to the floor. He tried to get his hand out in time
to protect his face. He failed and smashed headfirst onto the tiles.
Darvin hooked his foot under Swanson’s chest and rolled him over on his back. “Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid. GHB as it’s often
called,” he said. “Date-rape drug. Totally incapacitates you by depressing your cerebral metabolism. Wondering how I did it?
When you got the ice. Only took a second to drop it in your drink. Shaking the ice into your lemonade helped mix it. Christ,
you really are dumb. Dumb and helpless.” His voice had returned to normal, but his eyes burned with madness.
Darvin pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, gathered Swanson’s arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs over the
prone man’s wrists. Then he hoisted the dead weight over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and trudged out to his car. He
dumped Swanson in the front seat and stretched the seat belt across his chest and snapped the buckle shut. The last thing
he needed was an overzealous state trooper stopping him because his passenger didn’t have his seat belt on. He returned to
the house, spent five minutes wiping down any surfaces he had touched, then locked the front door and slid behind the wheel.
“Anyone need to use the facilities before we leave?” he asked, looking over at Swanson. He laughed at the blank expression.
“No? Okay, but it’s a long drive and I’m not stopping.”
He started the car and pulled out of Swanson’s private drive, humming an Eagles tune.