“Not sure I want to get involved,” Leo said. “I’m a reporter, not a cop, but maybe I can get him in touch with the local district commissioner, who might be able to light a fire under the local cops.”
“I think you can do better than that,” said Vivian.
Leo started to protest, but Vivian held up a finger.
“While you were in the shower,” said Vivian. “I called a colleague in Malawi—Sarah Dowa who works for the Malawi Times—to see if she’d heard anything about the principal’s murder. She told me that five other people, besides the principal, have been killed—and in the same manner.”
“Wait a minute,” said Leo. “That’s why you didn’t join me in the shower? You wanted to call some friend in Malawi?”
Vivian frowned. Leo had seen the gleam of interest in her eyes when he’d recounted Wes’ strange message to her. He wasn’t surprised that she was thinking of the principal’s murder from a journalist’s perspective. After all, she was an investigative journalist and was always on the hunt for her next story. Leo liked to sink his teeth into an investigation, as well, but he didn’t want to think about murder or corruption or crime while they were in paradise. He wanted to enjoy their weekend getaway with no distractions, before it was over and they had to go back to writing about the shady exploits of crazy dictators and ruthless warlords.
“Sarah said the murders were gruesome and brutal.”
“Gruesome and brutal in what way?” asked Leo. “After all, what’s brutal to one person might be benign to another.”
Vivian gave him a look. “Can you be serious?”
Sheepish, Leo apologized and leaned forward to listen.
“Sarah didn’t have the details because the local police are keeping a lid on their investigation,” said Vivian, “possibly at the request of local politicians with deep pockets.”
Leo took another sip of beer. “So the cops and local politicians may be covering something up.”
“I think we should look into things,” said Vivian. “This might be a much bigger story. And since we’re scheduled to leave tomorrow, we can just change our flight plans.”
Groaning, Leo said, “I was hoping you would be open to making our weekend getaway a week-long vacation.”
“Maybe next time,” said Vivian, giving him a sexy wink. “But, tell you what? I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?” asked Leo as Vivian stood, walked around the table to him and sat on his lap.
Gyrating slowly against his erection, she said, “How does a week’s worth of sex in one night sound?”
3
Lilongwe, Malawi
“For some reason, the local authorities don’t want anyone to know what really happened to Francine Xarras,” said Wes, leaning back in the chair behind his large desk.
Instruct-Africa, Wilhelm Weschenfelder’s non-profit foundation dedicated to educating children in rural African villages, was a sprawling complex of offices on the top floor of a ten-story building located in Lilongwe, the capital city of Malawi.
On the drive into the north area of the capital, Vivian gazed at the broad avenues and large, glass-and-chrome towers. She’d been to Malawi once before, where the story she’d been working on had taken her to Capital Hill to interview one of the country’s government ministers.
Sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, Vivian crossed her ankles and surreptitiously surveyed her surroundings. Wes’ office was beyond spacious, with a 180-degree view of the city through a ceiling-to-floor glass wall. Vivian would describe the decor as “safari chic” with lots of animal skin and tribal accents.
The non-profit founder was handsome, with striking green eyes and close-cut blonde hair. He was dressed casually, as though to downplay his wealth, but Vivian knew the leather driving shoes were most likely hand-made and cost thousands of dollars. The T-shirt, though made of some soft-cotton blend, probably had a label that elevated its price from twenty bucks to two hundred. The slacks, belt, and sports jacket were, no doubt, from some designer label, Gucci or Prada.
Vivian smiled to herself. Leo was the same way with his dusty, ragged, careworn jeans that cost more than most people made in a month. More than their clothes, the two men exuded wealth, as though privilege floated around them like a pheromone. Their bearing, stature, mannerisms, speech, and a host of other non-verbal gestures spoke of their place within the upper echelons of society.
“What did the cops tell you?” asked Leo.
Wes said, “The police are blaming Francine’s murder on a band of outlaw village thugs, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. The cops are hiding something.”
“Why do you think that?” Leo asked.
“Do you have some evidence to the contrary?” asked Vivian.
“Francine’s purse was found near her decomposing remains,” said Wes. “Her wallet was still inside of the purse and contained several hundred dollars, credit cards, and her passport. She was also wearing an expensive watch. How could she have been robbed when nothing of value was taken?”
Vivian glanced at Leo and recognized his pensive stare. She knew he was as suspicious as she was about the police’s claims.
Wes said, “There are two witnesses that tell a far more gruesome story than what the police claim
happened to her.”
“Who are the witnesses?” asked Vivian.
“Gus Stewart, the director of the foundation,” said Wes, “and Matilda Ross, the assistant director.”
“What did the witnesses tell you?” Leo asked.
“I think the witnesses should speak for themselves,” Wes said. “I’ve asked them to make themselves available to talk to you if that’s okay with you?”
Nodding, Vivian said, “We’d like to hear what they have to say.”
Wes pressed a button on his phone and asked his assistant to have the aid workers come to his office.
Several moments later, Gus Stewart and Matilda Ross entered the office. As Wes did the introductions, Vivian appraised the director and his assistant. Slight and short, with a long, craggy face, bald pate, and shifty eyes, Gus
