Clearly, this wasn’t a job for a gallon of spackle and some paint. It was the domain of an architect and full construction crew. The whole bottom floor was a gut job, which would be expensive and time consuming—particularly if their insurance didn’t cover Guatemalan hit squads. On the other hand, it would allow Claudia to add the modern touches she was always going on about and him to install a more integrated security system.
Or maybe their time in South Africa was over. The shit that had gone down there could have put them back on the radar of their long list of enemies. Probably better to keep their distance for a while and handle renovations over the Internet. Then, when the work was done, they could decide whether it was viable to move back in or if they should just put the property on the market and disappear.
Usually that kind of vanishing act was the answer when you were up against a wall, but he questioned whether it was even an option anymore. First, the level of discipline and attention to detail it demanded would likely prove impossible for a girl Anna’s age. Second, dropping off the face of the earth would violate the terms of his truce with Anthony Cook and any armistice they might or might not have would be right down the toilet.
After thirty minutes, he’d gone through two soft drinks and the entire bag of Africa’s answer to Doritos but come to no conclusions. In truth, soul-searching wasn’t his reason for being there, but it seemed like a good use of the downtime. Likely, it wouldn’t last.
He slid off the stool and was going to go upstairs to see if there was any damage but then spotted a police vehicle creeping through the gate. He examined it through a rare unbroken window and then started for the entryway.
Even after three weeks, the press couldn’t let go of the Franschhoek Bloodbath, with much of the continued interest being generated by the fact that the house’s owners were still unaccounted for. If they ever had a hope of returning, he needed to quiet this thing down and get on the right side of the law.
“Afternoon!” Rapp called to the man stepping from the cruiser. He was alone, probably five inches taller than Rapp, with a shaved head and impeccable uniform.
“I’m Thato Gumede,” he said through a pleasant African accent. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mitch Burhan?”
“In the flesh,” Rapp said, keeping his tone lighter than the circumstances probably warranted. What he didn’t need right now was to get hauled off to an interrogation room. “Is it just you?”
The man stopped in the grass about ten feet away. It was no longer raining, and he seemed to judge it a safe distance.
“After what happened here, I didn’t think that backup would do me much good.”
Rapp wasn’t sure how to respond so he didn’t.
“May I ask where your partner and her daughter are?”
“In a safe place.”
The man nodded. He didn’t look stupid and clearly wanted to keep this situation on as even a keel as possible. It was a significant relief. If some cowboy had showed up looking to throw his weight around, things could have deteriorated pretty quickly.
“Can you prove this?”
“Absolutely. Before you leave, let me give you our attorney’s card. She can get you anything you need, including scheduling a Zoom call with Claudia and Anna.”
They were represented by one of the most prestigious firms in the country—something that would hopefully enhance what little credibility he had left. Blowing away a bunch of Latino gangbangers in the hoity-toity South African wine country wasn’t a great way to ingratiate yourself with your adopted country.
“So, what happened here, Mr. Burhan?”
Rapp sat in one of the slingback chairs on the porch and invited Gumede to do the same. He politely refused, preferring to stand in the wet grass than get any closer.
“All three of us were home when two SUVs came through the gate and ten armed men attacked us.”
“But they were all killed in the attempt.”
“Yes.”
“By you.”
“Yes.”
“Alone. There was no one else here?”
“No one except Claudia and Anna.”
“Captain Mitchell Burhan,” Gumede said, beginning to recite the elaborate identity Rapp had created to establish his South African residency. “Former Green Beret. Honorably discharged from the military after serving in various combat zones, most notably Afghanistan.”
“That’s me.”
“After you left the military, you went to work for a little-known security company. What did you do there?”