Killerwatt



  Cover photos by Bill Hopkins, Sharon Hopkins, and Jeff Snowden

  Book and cover design by Ellie Searl, Publishista® Publishista.com

  KILLERWATT Copyright © 2011 Sharon Woods Hopkins. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or mechanical. Photocopying, recording or otherwise reproducing any portion of this work without the prior written permission of the author is prohibited, except for brief quotations used in a review.

  Available as a print book:

  ISBN: 9780989345620

  This is a work of fiction, and a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual persons is purely coincidental. Persons, events and places mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

  Deadly Writes and the Deadly Writes image and colophon are trademarks of Deadly Writes Publishing, LLC

  Email: [email protected]

  Deadly Writes Publishing, LLC

  Marble Hill, MO

  I have so many people to thank, especially my family and friends who inspired and encouraged me. At the top of this list is the love of my life, my husband, Bill, who is always there for me, who prods me, helps me, puts up with me and who loves me. I couldn’t have written this without him. He is my rock.

  To my wonderful son, Jeff Snowden, mechanic par excellence, who takes care of the real Cami, and to my delightful daughter-in-law, Wendy, and my terrific grandson, Dylan—Love you guys!

  To Hank Philippi Ryan, thanks for your wonderful enthusiasm and ongoing support and encouragement.

  To Sharon Potts, thanks for your critical eye, your kindness and help.

  To Sue Ann Jaffarian, thanks for your friendship and inspiration.

  And a huge thanks to those folks who allowed me to pick their brains and gave unhesitatingly when I asked my many questions: Joe Russell, Dr. David Schnur, Ken Steinhoff, and Van Riehl.

  I took liberties with the geography of Southeast Missouri to fit the story. As my dad would have said to anyone taking issue with that, “What do you want, an argument, or a story?”

  To my mother, Agnes Vienneau Woods (1920-1973), who introduced me to the entire collection of Nancy Drew mysteries as soon as I could read.

  To my father, John (Harry) Woods (1915-1984), a newspaper typesetter who taught me to read before I started school. He also taught me to read upside down and backwards.

  CHAPTER 1

  Thursday morning, June 25

  “Al-Serafi is dead!”

  Rhetta McCarter heard Woody shout to her as she tugged open the door of Missouri Community Bank Mortgage and Insurance Group, but it took a minute for what he said to register. Arms loaded, she peered at her loan officer over her reading glasses, while balancing her diminutive frame on one foot and shoving the door shut with the other.

  Today was her first day back from a branch managers’ seminar on federal lending changes. She was thinking about all the work that piled up in her absence. Woody Zelinski, her sole loan officer and agent, swiveled his oversized chair to wave the newspaper at her even before the door closed.

  She snapped her head around to stare at Woody, whose forehead glistened with sweat droplets. “What did you say?”

  She continued to her desk without dropping anything, especially the grande light cappuccino. After plopping her overstuffed leather briefcase, legal pads, and a tote bag of overdue mystery novels on her desk, she hunted for her glasses. When she bent to search the desktop, they fell from her nose.

  Woody thrust the turned over page at her as proof. She snatched the newspaper from him and scanned the photo of a vehicle nose down in the water, then read the accompanying article.

  Forty-three year old Doctor Hakim Al-Serafi, a staff physician at St. Mark’s hospital, was found dead early yesterday morning in his car in the Diversion Channel, just south of Cape Girardeau. Marvin Englebrod, a Scott City farmer, was heading south on Interstate 55, when he noticed the partially submerged Lexus in the channel, especially full this year due to the recent flooding. “I spotted something as I crossed the bridge. I pulled over to investigate, and when I seen it was a car nose down in the water, I dialed 9-1-1,” Englebrod recounted. Police identified Al-Serafi from a driver’s license found on the victim’s body. Cause of death was not immediately known. Cape Girardeau County Coroner, Doctor Julian Sickfield, said the autopsy results would be available in about ten days.

  Al-Serafi was a staff physician at St. Mark’s hospital since coming to Cape Girardeau a year and a half ago. His wife, Mahata Al-Serafi, could not be reached. They have no children. Co-workers at St. Mark’s remember him as a very private person and an excellent doctor. Information about funeral services for Al-Serafi is unknown at this time.

  Members of the Muslim community in Cape Girardeau expressed sorrow at the loss and grief of being unable to bury him immediately as is customary in the Muslim faith.

  (See sidebar on Muslims in Our Community)

  Goosebumps stood at attention on Rhetta’s arm. She started to hand the paper back to Woody, who dabbed his forehead and his glistening head with a spotless white handkerchief.

  She snatched the paper back. Shaking her head, she reread the article.

  “Didn’t you read the paper this morning?” he asked. Even though Rhetta couldn’t remember her own father, Woody sometimes sounded like a father and towered over his manager like one, too. Although he outweighed her by over a hundred pounds, he swiveled with the ease of a dancer, and returned to his desk.

  Rhetta reached for her coffee and inhaled deeply, the fragrance making her mouth water. Then she began arranging the items on her desk. “No, Mr. Newsaholic, I didn’t. I had a few errands to run on my way to work this morning, so I picked up the St. Louis paper to read later.” She sipped, savoring the burst of flavor.

  Rhetta pointed to a St. Louis Post-Dispatch among the items piled on her desk. It annoyed her that Woody didn’t remember how much she disliked the local paper. “You know I don’t buy the Cape paper. It’s all advertising. The last time I read the thing there was a headline proclaiming that a Butler County cow gave birth to triplets. I can’t stand that much excitement.” Anticipating his next question, she added, “And, no, I didn’t watch much of First News this morning either.”

  She propped her elbows on her now-organized desk. “The TV reporter is much too chirpy. I turned the news off after hearing about the upcoming music festival.” Then, thinking about how many visitors would converge for the annual event, she muttered, “Traffic will be worse than snails racing turtles while that’s going on. Remind me not to go downtown.”

  Woody paced, tugging at his neatly trimmed grey beard, apparently ignoring her assessment of the local news media and the popular annual music event. “What should we do? Do you think we should call the FBI?” The sunburn he’d acquired on a recent fishing trip couldn’t hide the paleness of his face, drained of blood.

  After running her hands through her cropped hairdo, Rhetta reached for the phone, but changed her mind. Instead, she rested her hand on the receiver.

  “What’s the point? The FBI ignored you when you called them before. What good is it to call again? Besides, what, exactly, do we tell them?” Rhetta craned her neck to gaze up at Woody.

  Woody snatched a handful of tissues from a box on Rhetta’s desk and resumed pacing. Picking up a pen, Rhetta stuck it into her mouth, and gnawed. She returned the box of tissues to its previous location. “It’s useless to call them again.”

  “We have to tell somebody what happened.” Woody stopped pacing and dropped into the guest chair in front of Rhetta’s desk.

  The swoosh of air that followed him knocked off a stack of wh
ile-you-were-out messages that he’d earlier placed on the corner of her desk. A pink blizzard covered the floor near Woody’s chair. He bent and retrieved each sheet, stacking them neatly into piles according to how she always classified them—Hopeless, Maybe, and Good. There was barely enough room on her desk to make three stacks. Woody’s desk was always arranged with the precision of a Japanese garden while her work area generally looked like the aftermath of a tornado.

  He leaned forward. “What about calling the local police or the FBI again? Do you think they’d be interested now?”

  Rhetta removed the chewed-up pen from her mouth. “They should be. I don’t believe this”—she tapped the newspaper article—“was an accident. Aren’t those cable thingies the state put up last year supposed to stop such a thing from happening?”

  Woody picked up the paper as she continued, “After everything that happened when we did his loan? He got a ton of money from his refinance, and now he’s dead. It’s too coincidental.” She eyed the tissues, wondering if blue ink had leaked on her face.

  Woody rubbed his head with both hands. “Why did I have to get that stupid phone message in the first place?” She recognized Woody’s head rubbing as a familiar gesture that he repeated whenever he was under stress. Two-handed meant he was doubly stressed. Apparently, being a star linebacker for Mizzou and a former Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan hadn’t prepared him for coping with the stress of the mortgage and insurance business.

  Although Woody, at forty-four, was a year older than Rhetta, she had to check herself from treating him like a younger brother. She dug to the bottom of her oversized purse, grumbling, “This thing is a freakin’ black hole.” Eventually, she surfaced with her billfold. After riffling through several of its pockets, Rhetta found a business card, snatched the phone, and punched a number into it.

  “Who’re you calling? The FBI could care less, remember?” Woody said.

  “It’s couldn’t care less, and to heck with the FBI. I want to see that car for myself. I know we don’t have to inspect our customers’ wrecked vehicles, but let’s just say I’m suspicious. I just don’t think he could have simply driven off into the Diversion Channel.”

  Eddie Wellston, owner and manager of the impound lot, answered on the third ring.

  * * *

  “Great. Thanks, Eddie,” Rhetta said and hung up. Eddie said he would still be at the lot if she came over to view the car. She returned the phone to the cradle, spun her chair around, grabbed the rest of the contents of her purse, and said, “I was right. Eddie said that he towed Al-Serafi’s car there yesterday, and it’s still there. He also told me our adjuster called him, and will be over to look at the car sometime today. I want to get there first.”

  Considering what happened six weeks ago during Al-Serafi’s loan transaction, she was determined to see Al-Serafi’s car before anyone else did.

  CHAPTER 2

  Six Weeks Earlier, Tuesday, May 19

  In the frantic week before the Memorial Day weekend, Rhetta was helping Woody with the paperwork to refinance Doctor Hakim Al-Serafi’s home. The doctor’s mansion sat nestled in Woodland Crossing, a prestigious new subdivision west of Cape Girardeau, Missouri.

  A little over a year ago, Al-Serafi bought the foreclosed house for cash when he arrived to start working as an emergency room physician at St. Mark’s Hospital. The house had belonged to the developer who went broke when the recession punched a hole in the housing market balloon. Even with the depressed market, the house was worth $100,000 more than when Al-Serafi bought it. Property values had mushroomed in that area since his purchase.

  Although the photocopy of Al-Serafi’s alien registration card, also known as a green card, proclaimed him a German citizen, Rhetta noted that the dark skinned, black haired doctor didn’t speak with a German accent.

  Woody studied Al-Serafi’s picture intently. “I was stationed in Germany for over two years,” Woody said. “I can tell you, he doesn’t sound German to me. Al-Serafi speaks English with a British accent.” Woody withdrew a copy of the doctor’s permanent visa from the file and examined it. “We worked with a lot of Arabs who spoke English with a British accent.” He slid both back into the file and closed it. “He sounds a lot like they did.”

  Looking up from her computer, Rhetta turned to Woody. “Why did Arabs speak English with a British accent?” She remembered that Woody had also spent two years in Kuwait, and was doubtless familiar with all the accents in that area.

  “Most of the Arabs we worked with had wealthy parents who sent them to school in England. When I asked Doctor Al-Serafi if he had also gone to school in England, he got huffy with me. I took that for a no.”

  Because Rhetta’s desk was close to Woody’s, she was able to overhear all of their conversation. The entire main office area was barely sixteen feet square. Rhetta and Woody routinely heard conversation from customers at each other’s desk. If more privacy was required, either of them could move to an office in the back. Both she and Woody preferred to sit out front near the windows.

  Al-Serafi told Woody he graduated from the American school in Munich before going abroad to medical school. He also explained his affinity to a Western lifestyle. “I am a Muslim. But I am not Sharia.”

  Sharia, Rhetta knew, was the strictest form of the Muslim religion. In fact, if she remembered correctly, a Sharia Muslim wasn’t permitted to borrow money and pay interest to a non-Muslim bank. His not being Sharia explained why he’d come to Missouri Community Bank Mortgage and Insurance. Besides that, there were no Muslim banks in Southeast Missouri.

  Al-Serafi continued, “I do not approve of those who say they are Muslims, but are bent on waging war against the West. I have always lived in the West. Allah,” Al-Serafi then bowed in reverence, “is called AS-SALĀM, the Bestower of Peace.”

  Woody withheld comment.

  Seeing him turned out in crisp Dockers, tasseled loafers—no socks—and a starched blue Oxford shirt, Rhetta conceded that Al-Serafi dressed like many other western doctors she knew. She wondered what his wife looked like.

  Rhetta heard Woody reviewing the closing figures with his client. “Everything’s ready,” Woody said. “Your closing is set for next Thursday. Make sure your wife brings photo identification.”

  Al-Serafi’s voice changed its tone, growing louder. Rhetta glanced at Woody. She saw only the back of Al-Serafi’s head and couldn’t read his expression.

  “My wife does not have anything to do with the finances of our household,” Al-Serafi said. He sounded like a man accustomed to being in charge. She swore she heard his neck hairs bristle. Yeah, that sounds real American. Right.

  Woody answered in a calm voice. “You’re the only one on the promissory note. That means you’re the only one responsible for paying back the money.” Woody stared unwaveringly at his client. “Under Missouri law, a spouse must sign the mortgage. She must agree to your home providing collateral. That’s why she has to sign.”

  Rhetta observed Al-Serafi as he turned sideways, breaking eye contact with Woody and glancing down to the table at the paperwork. “Very well,” Al-Serafi said. “I will have my wife here to sign the papers at three o’clock on Thursday.” The doctor gathered up his own copies, arranged them in a slim burgundy leather folio and left.

  Rhetta separated the vertical blinds at the nearby window to observe the doctor striding toward his tan Lexus ES 330. “That guy sure doesn’t look German to me. I wonder what his real story is.” She sauntered over to Woody’s desk, picked up the file and thumbed through it. “I can’t wait to see his wife. What’s her name?”

  “Mahata,” said Woody.

  From the copy of the green card, Rhetta learned that Al-Serafi had entered the U.S. at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago eighteen months earlier. She flipped through the pages of his application. Rhetta whistled when she saw the amount of cash he’d get. One eyebrow shot up. She snapped the file closed. “Holy crap, what’s he going to do with $50
0,000?” Her suspicions flared. She claimed her wariness intensified from being married to a cynical judge for over ten years. Judge Randolph McCarter, who retired two years ago after he turned fifty, claimed that his mistrustful nature was due to the preposterous stories he’d heard from criminal defendants and their lawyers.

  Rhetta had met her share of liars and frauds over the years in her line of work, too.

  “Claims he’s going to buy a second home at Lake of the Ozarks,” Woody said.

  “Right,” Rhetta said. “Al-Serafi can go fishing while Mahata sunbathes in a teensy-weensy bikini.”

  Woody’s lips twitched in the tiniest of smiles.

  * * *

  At precisely three o’clock on Thursday, the twenty-first, Al-Serafi pushed open the office door and strode in. The warm humid outside air followed him in, along with the smell of impending rain. Rhetta swiveled in her chair to watch, curious to see Al-Serafi’s wife. Mahata followed several steps behind the doctor.

  After Woody greeted his customers, the men turned to walk to the conference table. Although a shawl-like, gauzy garment covered Mahata’s head, her face was exposed. She wore no burqa, the traditional garment that Rhetta thought Muslim females usually wore. Black hair peeked out of the head covering. Rhetta assumed her eyes were dark, although she’d yet to see them.

  Al-Serafi pulled out a chair and sat, then motioned for his wife to sit. He did not hold out a chair for her. Mahata gazed downward, avoiding any eye contact with Woody. It disturbed Rhetta that Al-Serafi didn’t extend any courtesy to his wife. Woody slid a chair out for her. Mahata took her seat in silence.

  While everyone took their places, Mahata kept her head down and fingered a fold in her black robe. Al-Serafi made no move to introduce his wife. They sat without speaking until Woody turned to Mahata. “May I please—”

  Throwing his right hand, palm-up in a stop gesture, Al-Serafi interrupted. “You must not speak directly to my wife, sir. It isn’t proper. You must speak only to me. Also, you must not look directly at my wife.”