Love is Murder (43 page)

Katherine got off the couch and crossed to him wrapping her arms around his neck. “No rest for the weary, though,” she whispered in his ear.

A smile with just the hint of a leer appeared on John’s face. “I thought the saying was ‘no rest for the wicked.’”

Katherine looked into his eyes, her lips just an inch away from his. “That’ll work.”

* * *

The phone woke John at nine-thirty the next morning. He hadn’t meant to fall back asleep after Katherine had left an hour before to meet Beverly at the Coronet Hotel. Savoring the memory of her goodbye kiss, he reached across the empty bed and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“John. I can’t find Beverly.”

“Where are you?”

“Her hotel. She didn’t answer her door or the house phone. I got the manager to open the room. The bed looks slept in. All her stuff’s there.”

“Maybe she went over to CPS already? Couldn’t wait?”

“I don’t think she would, but I called anyway. She’s not there. Wasn’t at the courthouse, either. She wouldn’t miss this for anything. Something’s not right.”

John had learned time and again to trust Katherine’s instincts. He was already out of bed and pulling on his clothes. “Have you called the police?”

“I did. Of course, they said ‘she’s an adult, maybe went out.’ The usual.”

“Anybody at the hotel see anything?”

“Not so far. I’m going to see if I can persuade the manager to let me look at their security tapes.”

“Okay. You’re right down Oxford Street?”

“Yes. Right on Berwick. Just down from there. On the right.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be here.”

* * *

John made it in twelve. He dashed through the front door of the Coronet Hotel and up to the desk. Met with a blank stare when he inquired after Katherine, he requested the manager. A moment later a tall, slender, dark-haired, thirtysomething woman came out a door behind the desk. She spoke with a slight German accent. “May I help you?”

John asked again for Katherine.

“I know who you’re referring to, sir,” the manager replied. “I spoke with her earlier, yes. Let her into her client’s room. But I haven’t seen her since.”

“She told me she was going to try to look at your surveillance recordings.”

The manager shook her head. “She didn’t. As I said I only spoke with her the one time.”

Nothing was making sense. “Might I examine your security tapes, then?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Privacy concerns. You understand.”

He did, but…he turned away from the desk, punching a number into his cell phone as he walked around the lobby. The call was answered on the first ring.

“Foster.”

“Robbie. It’s John Cann.”

“Robbie” was Sir Robert Foster, a former colonel in Britain’s most elite Special Forces unit, the SAS. Foster had retired from the military and gone on to form one of the premier executive protection firms in the U.K. His lifetime of service to his country as well as his current accomplishments had earned him a knighthood in 2007. Cann had been an honored guest at the ceremony.

“John. How wonderful. Are you in the U.K.? Is the lovely Katherine with you?”

“She is but there’s a problem.”

Foster turned serious. He’d known John for a very long time, well before Loring, Matsen and Gould. And he knew that John Cann did not lightly characterize something as a “problem.” Neither did Katherine. Many of the firm’s lawyers were more than attorneys, recruited as much for their operational skills as their legal acumen.

Like John and Katherine.

John’s background was military; army straight out of high school, Green Beret and Delta Force, operations with DIA, CIA, NSA, etc. And even the SAS. That’s how he knew Robbie. Later he was sent to law school on “Uncle Sam’s nickel” to establish a cover for clandestine work and turned out to be an excellent attorney. Just what Loring, Matsen and Gould sought.

As for Katherine, she was an honors graduate of a small private law school and had gone to the Department of Justice upon graduation. Glynco Federal Law Enforcement Training Center—“Fletsy”—was followed by assignments as “legal attaché,” the euphemism for U.S. agents on foreign soil, before heading to counterterror at State.

They were both very good at what they did. That’s why they were at Loring, Matsen and Gould.

And, Foster knew, they didn’t
have
problems. They solved them.

“What kind of problem?” Foster asked.

John explained about the acrimonious custody proceeding, the abusive Sarnath Dutta, and Katherine’s efforts to find Beverly Dutta. And now, Katherine was nowhere to be found. “Nothing would keep Beverly Dutta from those kids, Robbie. Katherine either.”

“Yes, well, of course, there may be an explanation,” he said. “And Katherine’s an extraordinary woman. I don’t have to tell you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“But there’s clearly cause for concern. The Coronet, you say?”

“Berwick. Just off Oxford.”

“I know it. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thanks, Robbie.”

Cann paced the lobby for a few minutes then stepped out the front door, looking up and down the street. For what exactly, even he didn’t know.

A few moments later, the manager came out. “Ah, there you are, sir,” she said. “Sir Robert just phoned and explained the necessity for you to see our security tapes. If you’ll follow me?”

As egalitarian and multicultural as the U.K. had become, a knight was still a knight.

* * *

Katherine’s first perceptions on awakening were dampness and darkness, the only light in the enclosed space coming from slots near the bottom of the wall to her right. She was seated, hands tied behind her, ropes around her chest and legs binding her to a straight-backed chair. Beverly was seated across from her, similarly bound. Sarnath Dutta stood in front of her.

“Not so arrogant now, lady lawyer, are you?” he sneered.

Katherine glared defiantly into Dutta’s eyes. “What’s this supposed to accomplish? Do you actually think this will get you your children?”

Dutta shrugged. “
Insh’allah
. If not, I will make more children,” he looked at Beverly with contempt, “with a proper wife and mother.” His expression hardened. “But you will not see it. You will see nothing once the tide rises.” He pointed at the slots in the wall where murky water was already starting to slosh in.

Katherine looked to her right then up at Dutta. “Where are we?”

Dutta savored the moment, his mouth curving to a crooked grin.

“This place is called Execution Dock.”

* * *

Cann was glaring at the computer as Foster walked in accompanied by two men and a woman. On the screen were two West-Asian men dressed in white coveralls, the Coronet Hotel logo visible on the back. Katherine staggered along between them, either stunned or drugged. As they reached a large canvas laundry basket, Katherine leaned back, resisting. One of the men punched her hard in the face with a closed right fist. Twice. She went limp and they threw her into the basket. Cann’s knuckles were white.

Foster turned to one of his men. “Get one of the housekeeping staff,” he ordered. In moments, he returned with a young black woman whose eyes darted from face to face as she twisted and untwisted a cleaning cloth in her hands.

“Do you know these men?” Foster asked. Cann had cropped the image so only the men’s faces were shown. The woman put a finger on the one who hadn’t punched Katherine.

“That’s Kanu Mukherjee. Housekeeping. I don’t know the other man.”

“Is he here now?”

“I saw him a little while ago.”

Foster nodded at his two men and they left. He ordered his female employee to “Run him down.” She, too, nodded and left.

“May I go?” the housekeeper asked.

“In a moment.” Foster was taking no chance she might, however innocently, reveal their hand.

Moments later, Foster’s people reappeared with Mukherjee. The maid was allowed to leave. Mukherjee looked merely cautious at first but when Cann returned the images of him and the other man and Katherine to the screen, he paled and cast his eyes downward refusing to meet the others’ eyes.

“Where did you take her?” Cann asked.

“I didn’t take her nowhere,” the man said sullenly.

Cann grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him up against the wall. “Answer now,” he growled.

Mukherjee scrunched his chin into his throat in an effort to pull back. “You can’t do this. I got rights.”

Foster slammed a hand into the side of the Mukherjee’s head then put his face up against the man’s ear. “No, lad, you don’t have rights. Not with us. Answer. Now.”

“I can’t. I don’t know.”

“Then tell us who’s this other man and where can we find him?”

Mukherjee chewed his lip.

Foster’s female employee came back into the room and handed Foster a sheaf of papers. He looked at them briefly before he started to read from them. “‘Kanu Mukherjee. Emigrated to the U.K. July 2006. Married, two children.’” Foster continued to read off the details of Mukherjee’s life. “Just one problem, though, Kanu, isn’t there?”

Mukherjee now looked concerned. “You two never married. And she’s not Bengali. She’s Bhutanese.” He looked hard into Mukherjee’s eyes. “As a citizen of Bangladesh, you have Commonwealth citizenship. Your wife does not and is therefore here illegally. As are your children.” He grabbed Mukherjee by the chin. “Look at me, here, in my eyes. Do you see anything that says I won’t call the authorities in the next five minutes if you don’t tell us what we want to know? Immediately.” Even as he spoke he was taking his cell phone out of his pocket.

Mukherjee hesitated only briefly. “The other man is my cousin.”

“Name.”

Mukherjee licked his lips. “Girish Dutta.” Cann and Foster exchanged a look.

“Is Sarnath Dutta your cousin, as well?” Cann asked.

The man nodded.

“Where are they?”

“Please…” Kanu hesitated, then said, “Girish lives in Tower Hamlets but…”

Foster grabbed Mukherjee by the shirt and pushed him ahead of them. “Take us.”

* * *

Sarnath Dutta pulled the ladder up after him, slammed the trapdoor shut and rammed the bolt through the hasp. Without standing, he crept a few feet to the side and pulled back a small carpet that covered a small grid in the floor. He peered down into the chamber and was gratified to see the water level had already risen almost to Katherine’s and Beverly’s knees. Both struggled with their bonds but were limited in how much they could move. If the chair tipped over, they would be on their sides, lashed to the seat and would drown that much sooner.

Katherine knew that. She also knew that at the rate the water was rising it would not be long before they drowned no matter what. She called across to Beverly, “The rope seems to stretch a bit when it gets wet. Work on freeing your legs. Be careful.” Beverly nodded.

Above them, Sarnath Dutta smiled. He was going to enjoy this.

* * *

Mukherjee took them to the Wapping District in the borough of Tower Hamlets, so named because of its proximity to the Tower of London. They were in two cars, one driven by one of Foster’s men with Cann and Foster in the back, Mukherjee squeezed between them. The other man and the woman from Foster’s security firm followed in a separate car.

As they drove down Garnet Street, Mukherjee leaned forward and pointed at a man sauntering self-importantly down the street. “That’s him. That’s Girish.”

They drove by slowly, careful to
not
look at the man as Foster communicated with the car behind. At the next intersection, they turned and stopped right on the corner blocking the crosswalk. The man identified as Girish Dutta slowed and started to look around just as the second car pulled up to his left and behind him. The male operative who’d been in the passenger seat of the second car jumped out to block his retreat. Cann leaped from the backseat of the first car and he and the other man threw Dutta into the backseat of the trailing vehicle. Cann jumped in beside him and grabbed the man’s throat.

“Where did you take her?”

Dutta said nothing. Cann’s grip tightened around his windpipe.

“Not here, John,” Foster said leaning down into the open door. “We’ve a better place.” Cann clipped him across the chin, stunning him.

* * *

Minutes later, they were in a small room at the back of a windowless Tower Hamlets warehouse set amid a large enclosed area filled with construction equipment and materials. Girish Dutta was bound to a chair in the middle of the floor, still wearing a defiant look.

“Where is she?” Cann repeated.

Dutta smirked. “What’re ya gonna do wif me, mate, waterboard me?”

Cann turned to Foster. “I don’t have time for this.” There was a tall cylindrical canister in a corner of the room topped with a shallow ashtray. Cann asked one of the security men to take it and fill its entire three-foot height with soil or sand from one of the piles outside. The man did so and returned struggling with the weight of it. Cann thanked him and turned to Foster. “Maybe you and your people should leave.”

Foster flipped his chin at the door directing his team to wait outside. When they were gone, he said simply, “I’ll stay.”

He and Cann then lashed Dutta’s right hand so that it lay facedown, fingers splayed on top of the dirt-filled canister. Cann turned again to Foster. “I need a gun.” Foster nodded and reached inside his jacket and took out a black Glock 20. “This one’s untraceable,” he said. From another pocket, he took out a suppressor and handed that to Cann who screwed it onto the muzzle then pulled back the slide to make sure there was a round in the chamber. Girish Dutta watched in silence, a bemused look on his face.

Cann stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of the pistol straight down on the first knuckle of the man’s bound hand. “Where did you take her?”

“Who d’you think you’re kiddin’, mate. You ain’t…”

The weapon jolted in Cann’s hand as he fired, the bullet severing the finger and penetrating into the soil beneath. With his left hand, Cann picked up the severed finger and held it in front of Dutta’s eyes.

“We ain’t kiddin’, mate,” he said, mocking the accent. He tossed the finger into a corner of the room and asked yet again, “Where is she?”