by Austin S. Camacho
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
-1-
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SATURDAY
Isaac sent Anna into the corner with one last backhand slap before responding to the pounding behind him. "If this is one of your nosy neighbor friends, they’ll get the same as you," he said. He shuffled his broad frame to the door to stare through the small pane just below his eye level. Somebody was there but it was too dark to see them. Arrogance rumbling in his throat, he flung the door wide.
His visitor offered more than a few surprises. First, he was dressed rather formally, in a black suit and tie. He wore black leather driving gloves and dark sunglasses, despite the fact that the moon was out behind him. He must have been black too, but he was awfully light for a black man, more like the color of coffee if you used real cream. And his hair was wavy, but not kinky like all the black guys at Redskins camp before they threw him out. For his temper, they said. As if having a temper was bad for a lineman.
"You know, a woman screaming like that will attract people’s attention," the black guy said. Isaac figured the most surprising thing about this guy was that he was smiling. He looked so relaxed, Isaac was tempted to relax too. Some of the rage was seeping out of him. He glanced down at his bruised left knuckles, then back up at the man at the door. Well not up, really. The black guy was a good four inches shorter, which would make him just about six feet tall.
The newcomer also looked at Isaac’s big knuckles, and his smile dimmed just a bit. He kept one hand wrapped around the other in front of him. When he looked up, his gaze focused past Isaac for a moment, then he looked up into Isaac’s face. "My name is Hannibal Jones. My little friend back there called me because he thought you folks might be having some trouble. "Mind if I come in?"
Isaac looked behind himself to see a scrawny black kid, maybe twelve years old, crouching at the back of the room. As he did, his new visitor slid past him. None of the other busy bodies who came to the door ever tried to come in, not even the cops. Not until they asked Anna if they should, and she was always smart enough to say no. Not that this guy was any threat. Isaac had maintained his training weight, almost three hundred twenty-five pounds, a good hundred fifty pound advantage over the intruder from the look of him.
Hannibal walked to the center of the room, and seemed to anchor himself there. The boy stood frozen against the far wall. Hannibal stared hard at the woman in the corner, petite, cowering, waving him away. Her mouth formed the words "go now" without sound. He resumed that damned arrogant smile and returned his attention to Isaac.
"So, er...where’s your boy?" Not a question Isaac expected. Usually the intruders started with "why are you doing this" or "what did she do to make you do this" or some such idiocy, as if they really cared. This guy didn’t seem concerned about why. Isaac wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
"In his room," Isaac growled, flipping his head menacingly, his dirty blond hair dancing across his face. "What’s it to you?"
Hannibal pointed to the boy leaning against the wall and said "Monty, please." The boy ran back into the house. Isaac stepped toward him, but Hannibal stepped into his path.
"Monty goes to school with Nicky. He might just want to tell his friend goodnight, eh?"
Isaac hesitated for a moment, then his eyes flared as he realized for the first time that he was losing control of the situation. "Get out of my house!" he roared, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. "Get out now!"
Hannibal stood his ground, his nose wrinkling as he stared up into Isaac’s big face. Was that some kind of subtle insult to Isaac’s breath? And so what if it was? Wasn’t a man entitled to a few beers on the weekend in his own house? Isaac could feel the blood pumping back into his face, knew he would be getting red as he always did just before the explosion. At least, that’s what Anna always said. His fists shook at his sides. The smaller man slowly raised his left hand to chest height, his palm facing Isaac.
"How about we clear the field first? Doesn’t it seem crowded in here to you?"
Isaac watched his son and the black kid run past behind Hannibal, and out the door. Isaac was surprised Nicky left without even looking up, not a backward glance at his old man. Something like regret flitted through his mind, and the rage dimmed just a bit.
"My boy..."
"Yes," Hannibal said quietly. "And now the lady, okay?"
The black kid was back in the house, taking Anna’s hand, helping her to her feet. They were walking behind the smaller man. She walked slowly, limping. Isaac was aware then of his power. And while he watched her, she turned her face to him. A red trail led down from her nose. Purple patches stood under her deep blue eyes, almost like the paint he used to put on before a game. But her eyes still cut into him, as they had earlier this evening, before it all started.
"No!" Isaac screamed in his guttural voice, his right arm reaching out for her. Two gloved hands wrapped around his arm, at the wrist and just below the elbow.
"Can’t we talk about this?" Hannibal said, his voice still calm but more urgent now.
Isaac swung his arm outward and around. Hannibal lifted off the floor and sailed across the room to crash into a wall. Isaac centered his attention on his wife, so close to the door, about to leave him. "Get back here right now, you bitch!" he shouted. The woman stopped, and if not for the boy with her, may well have turned around.
But then Isaac felt a thump in his ribs on his right side, and staggered to the left. Hannibal recovered from delivering the stamp kick and raised his arms as a guard. Now his posture was familiar. He was ready to fight.
"Let her go, Isaac," Hannibal said softly. "You don’t really want to hurt her. Or anyone else."
What the hell did he know? Isaac could feel the rage building again as he watched his woman vanish through the door. He would teach her to desert him. He would settle with her as soon as he was done with this intruder. He turned to square off against the other man. Hannibal stood with fists raised, feet spread apart like a boxer. Probably thought he was some kind of fighter. He would never know what hit him.
Isaac dropped his shoulders and charged as if breaking through the line to sack the quarterback. Hannibal appeared frozen in fear at first. It would be easy. But then, just as Isaac reached him Hannibal’s body shifted to the right. One foot did not move, and Isaac tripped over that outstretched right leg. A gloved fist thumped hard against the back of Isaac’s head. Momentum sent him crashing into the sofa, forcing it back into the wall with enough force to create a long crease in the plaster. Hannibal was on Isaac’s back in an instant, wrapping his right arm around Isaac’s throat. His voice was close in Isaac’s ear.
"How about we calm down a bit now?" Hannibal said. "No point in hurting each other..."
Isaac wouldn’t let him finish. He stood easily with the man on his back, and ran backward as quickly as he could across the small room. He knew he had run out of space when the wall stopped him. He heard the breath burst out of the little man on his back. He raised his arms to reach behind himself, clamping thick fingers around Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s left arm swung under Isaac’s arm and his left hand clapped onto the back of Isaac’s head. Hannibal’s right, still across Isaac’s throat, gripped his own left arm. A simple but effective choke hold. Isaac pulled his own arms down, but it only increased the pressure on his throat.
This little man wasn’t going to bring him down. He moved forward just far enough to smash backward into the wall again, crushing Hannibal between the cracking plaster and his own massive bulk. Again Isaac’s huge legs propelled him back into the wall. A third time. The intruder cried out in pain each time. He would have to give it up soon.
But then the room began to spin and darken. Isaac’s head ached and the little breath he was getting rasped in his throat. Then pain shot through his knees. That’s how he knew they had hit the bare tiles of the floor. Then his hands slapped the floor, supporting him and the burden on his back.
The last thing he remembered thinking was that he could have beaten the black guy easily if he had fought fair.
*****
Hannibal freed his arms from Isaac’s unconscious form and pulled himself to his knees, swallowing and panting a bit. Pain pulsed from the center of his back outward in all directions. His arms ached from sustaining pressure long enough to knock Isaac out. And his throat was a little raw from Isaac’s thumbs digging into it. But at least he had managed to end this conflict without either of them getting badly hurt. He suspected that would answer the first question he’d hear when he got outside.
Anna Ingersoll watched him close her front door and step slowly toward her. She leaned against his white Volvo 850 GLT, her arms wrapped very tightly around her son. Hannibal did not avoid her eyes, but explored them under the street lamp for what they could tell him. He saw desperate fear there, but relief and curiosity hung close behind that. He opened the passenger door and waved her inside. She only held her boy tighter.
"He’ll be after us," Anna said.
"No he won’t. Not for a while. Get in the car."
"Is he okay?" Now her face showed more concern. She still loved him.
"He’s asleep, but not hurt. Please get in the car."
"You’re not the police," Anna said. "Police don’t act like that. Who are you?"
"I’ll tell you in the car." Hannibal said. When Anna didn’t move, Monty squeezed past Hannibal and squirmed into the back seat. He pulled Nicky in behind him, out of Anna’s embrace. She looked more confused now, as if her son was her touchstone with reality. Eyes darting left and right, she finally dropped into the front seat. Hannibal closed her door, quickly walked around the car and got behind the wheel. His eyes clamped briefly as he sat back, and he swallowed a gasp of pain.
"You’re hurt." Anna said.
Hannibal nodded and started the car. "Not bad. This really went better than I expected from what Monty told me when he called me from your kitchen."
"What now?" Anna asked as Hannibal guided his car away from the curb and down the darkened streets of Southeast Washington, DC. "I can’t just leave." She turned in her seat and Hannibal wished he could see what passed between mother and son. Then she turned back to Hannibal and her voice was different.
"I didn’t say thank you," she said, wiping the wetness from her blackened eyes. "Thank you. Now, who are you and why did you become involved with us?" She didn’t attack him for interfering in her personal life. That meant Monty had been right. She was ready for the torture to end.
"My name is Hannibal Jones and I’m a professional troubleshooter."
Anna ran her fingers through her short cropped blonde hair, momentarily scratching at its darker brown roots. "Troubleshooter? Like a private eye or something?"
"Well, I do have a private investigator's license, but I don’t do much P.I. work. I make my living helping people in trouble, whatever kind of trouble they can’t get help with otherwise. And sometimes," he glanced back at Monty, "sometimes I do it as a favor to a special friend."
Anna sat silent for a moment, as if considering his words and how she might qualify as a person in trouble. And as each block passed separating her more and more from her husband, Hannibal could see her shoulders rise and straighten a little more. He wasn’t sure what had kept her in that house with that dangerous man, but he began to believe she would not be going back. When she seemed to have it all neatly in order in her mind, she looked at him again.
"Okay, back to my original question. What now? Where are we going? Some halfway house or something?"
"For now I’ll take you to the safest place I know. Monty’s house. Actually the home of his grandmother, Mother Washington. I imagine you’ll come to the barbecue I’m giving tomorrow, and then we can decide what you want to do from there. The important thing is for you to be in a safe environment for a little while and have time to think."
Hannibal’s explanation brought the first word he heard from Nicky, who leaned forward between the front seats and said, "Barbecue?"
SUNDAY
Hannibal loved the smell of a charcoal fire. And there in his building’s backyard, behind the three story brick he called home, he hovered close enough to his round Weber kettle grill to absorb the smoke of the coals and mesquite chips into his pores. He leaned back, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of steaks and ribs dripping with Mother Washington’s dark red sauce, and stared up at the clear blue sky. Nature had sent him a perfect crisp Autumn day and he was enjoying it to the fullest.
For most folks, the middle of Columbus Day weekend was a bit late in the season for cooking out, but this was Hannibal’s idea of a good time, and the neighbors who wandered in and out seemed to agree. He scanned the yard, an almost square patch of green marginally wider than the building. A dozen or so of his closest friends and neighbors occupied folding chairs, lawn chairs, and the occasional kitchen chair dragged outside for the event. Three picnic tables groaned under the contributions so many guests had brought: potato, macaroni, green and cold pasta salads. Cole slaw. Baked beans.
Everyone who lived in Hannibal’s building had turned out. Virgil, Quaker and Sarge had even invited ladies. Ray was hunkered down over a big plate of ribs across the table from his daughter Cindy. While Hannibal watched, she looked up, apparently decided she had spent enough time on family, and headed for Hannibal over at the grill.
Cindy’s form still made Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat. She was tall and svelte, with eyes the color of dark sweet chocolate and a broad inviting smile. She wrapped an arm around his waist, pressed her ample bosom into his chest, and brushed her lips across his.
"Why don’t you grab a plate and come enjoy some of this party? All work and no play you know."
Hannibal had long since given up trying to resist Cindy’s suggestions. He laid the last of the meat on a serving plate and covered the grill, but hung behind a few inches so he could watch her hips sway seductively as they headed for the tables. He waited for her to sit to make sure he was facing her. Virgil poked at the boom box two tables away, and the Crusaders filled the yard with their unique smooth jazz sound. That music and friendly laughter filled Hannibal’s mind as he stared deep into Cindy’s eyes and filled his mouth with sweet, tender rib meat. A soft breeze flipped the collar of his knit shirt against his cheek. Hannibal silently prayed that when he got to heaven it would be just like this.
Anna Ingersoll stood out painfully when she stepped through Hannibal’s back door into the yard. Not because she and her son were white. After all, Quaker and his date were also, not that anyone present cared. In fact, as Monty led them in, he and Nicky darted for the food and instantly became part of the festivities. Nor was it because she wore a conservative skirt and low heels. All the men were in jeans, but some of the ladies had recently returned from church and hadn’t bothered to change. No, Anna stood out because Hannibal was swimming in a sea of smiles, and hers was the only face in the place not lightened by the joy of the moment.
Hannibal waved Anna over to his table, and Cindy slid aside to make space for her facing Hannibal. Anna seemed overwhelmed by this small kindness shown by a stranger, as if it were something she was not used to. Hannibal stood momentarily as Anna sat.
"Cindy, this is Anna Ingersoll, the lady I drove over to Mother Washington’s last night. Mrs. Ingersoll, I want you to meet Cindy Santiago, the only attorney foolish enough to hang around with the likes of me."
Anna shook the tips of Cindy’s fingers and nodded. When she turned to Hannibal he noticed how different she looked from the night before. Her face and hair glowed from scrubbing. She had done her nails and applied light but attractive makeup, almost concealing her bruises. When she spoke she flashed small, even, perfect teeth. The fact that one of her incisors was chipped was a jarring reminder of the night before.
"I realized this morning that I hadn’t thanked you properly, Mister Jones. What you did last night...the way you did it. I mean, I know you could have really hurt Isaac, and I remembered today that when you got in your car I could see you were carrying a gun. Thank you for helping us, and for not hurting him."
"Mrs. Ingersoll..." Hannibal began.
"Anna. Please."
"Well then, Anna, when Monty comes banging on my door on a Saturday night screaming that it’s a matter of life and death I don’t hesitate."
"But, you usually get paid for this kind of thing, right?" she asked. "I must owe you..."
Hannibal chuckled. "Actually, Monty was my client last night, and we’ll work something out. But how are you doing in that area anyway? I mean, do you have money?"
Anna’s shoulders seemed to lower a bit, as if talking relaxed her. Nicky was sitting beside Monty chewing on a burger. Her eyes followed his movements for a moment, then returned to Hannibal. "We’ll be all right. I’m not exactly pulling in millions down at the DMV, but I think I can feed the two of us if we can find a place to live."
"I might be able to help with that part," Cindy said. "My firm’s senior partner owns quite a bit of investment property. I’ll bet he has a vacancy for anyone I vouch for."
"You’d do that?"
"For a friend of Hannibal’s?" Cindy said. "Any time. But I’m curious. How did you end up living in Southeast to begin with? MOST of the folks in this part of the city are only here because they can’t be anywhere else." Her eyes cut to Hannibal with cold sarcasm.
"Isaac moved us here from North Dakota because he was to be a right guard for the Redskins," Anna said. "We left everything behind to chase his dream. But some things happened at the training camp. Isaac didn’t fit in with the team. He has a temper, as Mister Jones knows too well. Other team members just didn’t want to work with him."
Hannibal put his rib down on his plate. "Okay, so you were in Washington and didn’t know anyone, but why..."
"For a very long time Isaac refused to believe he couldn’t play football," Anna said, her hand raised as if to goad her audience into understanding. "He kept thinking they’d call him back. We had no money, no friends, nothing. I eventually found work, but we were so broke. One of the other players owned that building we live in and he had a vacancy. Anyway, it was the first apartment that looked like we might be able to afford. It sounded like he was doing us a favor at the time, but now I think maybe it was all a big joke on Isaac. We don’t belong there. Still, I tried so hard to keep our family together, for little Nicky’s sake. But Isaac just sat all day, stewing in his anger, and the longer he sat, the angrier he got until he had to lash out at something and...."
As she spoke Anna’s eyes slowly squeezed shut, her head lowered, and her outstretched hand gradually curled into a tightly balled fist. Hannibal looked at Cindy, but neither had any idea what to do or how to help.
Then a white gloved hand rested gently on Anna’s shoulder. Hannibal looked up to see Mother Washington standing behind Anna, her round dark face aglow from the rapture of recent Pentecostal church service. That loving glow softened the worry lines covering her kindly face, but Hannibal could still see them, even shadowed by her broad brimmed black church hat. She was a big woman, and her black dress reached nearly to her ankles, but no kinder person lived in Hannibal’s world. When she spoke to him, it was the voice of everyone’s grandmother.
"This child needs me right now, and the help the Lord can give when we go to Him in prayer," Mother Washington said softly, looking down at Anna. Then she pointed back toward the house. "That child needs you, and what you can do. Go help her."
Hannibal looked past Mother Washington to find another black woman standing in his kitchen doorway. This one was no one’s grandmother, judging by her apparent age. She was in fact as petite as Anna, nicely rounded and attractive without being aggressive about it. She wore a conservatively cut navy blue skirt suit and heels, which added a couple of artificial inches to her height. Her black hair was straightened and hung to shoulder length. Long artistic fingers clung to a small clutch purse as if for dear life.
"Well, go on," Cindy said. "Can’t you see she’s got trouble?"
Yes, Hannibal could see that plainly on her face and in her body language. And as he stood, he saw his perfect Sunday afternoon fading in the distance. He considered that for a self- employed man he certainly seemed to take orders from a lot of people. Partially in revenge and partially in self-defense, he reached down to capture Cindy’s hand.
"I’ll go, but not alone."
At the door, Hannibal held out his hand and introduced himself and Cindy. The woman took his hand solidly, then Cindy’s.
"Very pleased to meet you. I’m Bea Collins. Mrs. Washington tells me you’re very good at helping people. And I’m afraid I need some help today."
"Let’s not talk out here," Hannibal said. "There’s a party going on and I hate to ruin it. My office is right next door."
Mother Washington had escorted Bea through Hannibal’s unlocked front door and through his kitchen to the backyard. He took her to the door on the other side, just a few feet away. The kitchen they entered was never used.
*****
Hannibal didn’t like to do business this way: in jeans and sneakers, with barbecue sauce under his nails. He escorted Bea through the flat he used for business, past the spare guest bedroom, the storage room, the room with weights and the hanging bag he sometimes used, to the big front room which was his office. He settled behind his desk and waved his visitor into the facing chair. Cindy sat at the smaller desk by the door. Thick shafts of sunshine poured in through the two big windows on Hannibal’s left, splashing the room with brightness and calling his mind away from work. With an effort he ignored the light and focused on the nervous woman in front of him. She was staring at his eyes, but they often did at first. He ignored it unless they actually asked about them. Her own eyes were a soft fawn brown, and very vulnerable.
"All right, Miss Collins, you seem to know a bit about me from Mother Washington. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself and what kind of trouble you’ve found yourself in?"
"Myself?" Bea asked as if the question were a surprise. "Well, I’m an interior design architect with offices in Georgetown. The trouble is that Dean, that’s my fiancee, Dean Edwards, he disappeared yesterday. I think he might be in danger." It sounded to Hannibal like a response on the Dating Game. But while she spoke, Bea sat leaning forward on the edge of her chair, knees clamped together, fingers wrapped around the top of her purse in her lap. Her posture reminded Hannibal of a dog sitting up to beg. Her eyes were begging too.
"Disappeared?" Hannibal asked. He had learned to ask open, general questions if he wanted full answers.
"Yesterday, Mister Jones. I went out shopping early. When I got home he was, well, just gone."
"So, you live together." That implied a degree of commitment, but no diamond ring adorned her hand.
Bea was about to answer when Mother Washington and Anna entered the room. Her eyes cut to Mother Washington and she briefly hesitated. "Yes," she finally said. "He lives at my place now. For the last couple weeks. Three, actually."
"I see. And what makes you think he’s in danger?" Hannibal asked.
Bea’s face said that was a stupid question. "Well, why else would he be gone? Without a word, without even a note?"
Hannibal could think of several possibilities, but none this woman was likely interested in hearing. Instead he asked "Is Dean in with a bad crowd? Involved with drugs or some sort of illegal activity?" When Bea’s eyes cut to Cindy, Hannibal added, "Ms. Santiago is an attorney and anything said in her presence will be kept in strictest confidence."
"It hardly matters. My Dean would never use drugs or do anything illegal."
Hannibal nodded, leaned back, crossed his legs. "You’ve filed a police report, of course."
"Yes, this morning, but those people don’t care. They won’t twitch a muscle until a body turns up dripping blood."
An exaggeration of course, but Hannibal knew the police would not invest resources into a search for an adult missing less than twenty-four hours, and to his way of thinking there was good reason for that. He leaned forward slowly, wanting to soften his answer as much as possible. "Miss Collins, I’m sorry but this isn’t really my type of case. Maybe you don’t understand what it is I do."
Before pain could even register on Bea’s face, Mother Washington said, "She understands, Hannibal. You help people, just like this little girl here." She patted Anna’s hand as she said it. "And I just know you’re going to help her."
"Mother Washington," Hannibal said, standing, "We don’t have any reason to believe this woman’s fiancee is in any kind of trouble."
Mother Washington stepped heavily to the desk and placed a big soft hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. "Look at her son. It’s Bea Collins who’s troubled right now. A woman who sits in my church every Sunday and sings out so you can hear her on every hymn and I bring her to you for help. I know you won’t let her down."
Hannibal shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. Mother Washington had helped him move in and become part of the neighborhood. She had a heart as big as the Capitol dome and, besides that, she was the unofficial mayor of this block and everybody’s surrogate grandmother. Why did she work so hard when she must know he hadn’t the strength to say no to her?
"Look, maybe he’s visiting family."
"Dean hasn’t any living relatives," Bea said. "I’m all he’s got."
"Maybe a coworker," Hannibal said. "Sometimes guys get cold feet and want to hang with the fellows for a bit. Why not call his job tomorrow morning? If he’s at work you know he’s okay, right."
At this point Bea sniffled. Mother Washington’s eyes bored into Hannibal. Cindy’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. Bea managed to look up at Hannibal with damp eyes. "I went to his job yesterday afternoon. Sometimes he goes on the weekend for a while. At least I thought so."
"Excuse me?"
"Please, Mister Jones. He told me he was working on a programming project for a marketing company over in Alexandria. And there were people there, working on the weekend. But, they had never heard of him. Oh, Mister Jones...."
The picture was morphing before Hannibal’s eyes. Mother Washington’s face told him he was getting her view of the situation at last. Another woman being abused by a man, but more subtly than what Anna Ingersoll’s husband did. More subtle, but perhaps no less damaging. When Cindy stood, Hannibal knew she saw the same picture. She stepped closer to Bea, looking down at her as if she were a witness on the stand.
"Sounds like you don’t know this man very well. Maybe it would be better if you just never saw him again, eh?"
Bea’s eyes slid up Cindy’s body, past the jeans clinging so tightly to her rounded form, past the tee shirt her breasts threatened to burst through, past the wavy hair cascading wantonly onto her shoulders, and stared deep into her dark Latin eyes. Hannibal would never have believed any woman could make Cindy look cheap, but the tiny curve at the edge of Bea’s lips spoke volumes.
"That," Bea said slowly, "is not the nature of my love." Then her eyes returned to Hannibal. He could see then that this Dean had wormed his way all the way down into her soul.
"Will you find him for me Mister Jones?"
"You understand this isn’t a free service, Miss Collins."
Now Bea’s cutting smile settled on Hannibal. "This isn’t about money for me, Mister Jones. I will pay you whatever it takes if you’re the man who can do the job. Business has been good for me. I already have enough saved for the down payment on our.." the sentence tripped her, but only for a moment, "our first home. Picked out a nice little brownstone in Georgetown, near my office. But without Dean, that’s an empty dream, isn’t it? Will you help me? I may not be your usual client, whatever that may be, but Mother Washington told me that you help those who have no place else to turn. I have no place else to turn."
Would he help her? Help a woman being taken in by a swindler, a swindler who had perhaps had a change of heart or moved on to bigger things? Would he take her money to find the con artist and show her his true face? Perhaps Mother Washington was right and it was the only way to free this woman’s heart to love again. Not the kind of trouble he usually helped people out of, but perhaps as valid as any.
Besides, even if he could say no to this petite stranger sitting in his office on Sunday morning in her church clothes, he could never say no to Mother Washington. He pulled a drawer open, pulled out a contract and slid it across the desk to Bea. She signed without reading it while he was talking.
"Five hundred dollars a day. Plus unusual expenses. And another two fifty if I need to subcontract other professionals on the case. No way to know how long a trace like this can take. If he’s lied about his work, he’s probably lied about a lot more. Are you sure you want to see this fellow again that badly?"
Bea’s signature was small and precise. When she finished, she returned Hannibal’s pen to its stand and asked, "When can you get started?"
Hannibal looked at Mother Washington who smiled warmly. "It’s a fine yard party, son, but it’s running itself just fine. And I think all your friends would understand." He continued to glare at her. "I’ll clean up and make sure everything gets put away proper."
He walked around the desk to lean against it just to the side of Bea’s chair. His office seemed stifling just then, but maybe it was just the mix of four different women’s perfumes.
"Truth is, with missing persons, the sooner you start the more likely success is. Do you have a recent photo of the missing man, Miss Collins?"
"Well, not a still picture," she said, fumbling her purse open. "Never really had time to take any. But I’ve something even better!" She gave him her first genuine smile and handed up a tape cassette.
*****
Hannibal managed to leave Mother Washington and Anna behind when he shifted to his own apartment across the hall. His front door entered the fourth room back, just before the kitchen. Cindy dropped onto his sofa but Bea stood while he pushed the tape into his VCR. The image soon resolved itself into a news broadcast, and a second later the sound kicked in. An anchor was setting up the next story, a fluff piece, but Bea narrated right over her.
"This is from Monday’s news. It’s about last Sunday’s event at the Mall. You remember, the international food thing? Dean and I were there."
The story was the kind of light fare beginning reporters are often assigned and composed mostly of man on the scene interviews. The reporter, a trim redhead, was too perky by half. She interviewed couple after couple, child after child, about what a fun time they were having getting a "Taste of DC" as the event was called. The annual event took place on The National Mall. Not a collection of stores but rather a flat park sitting in the middle of the city, anchored at one end by the Washington Monument.
The National Mall is as perfect a gathering place today as it was a hundred years ago, big enough to give the revelers the illusion of being separated from the traffic and the grime of government at work, surrounded as they are by this nation’s repositories of knowledge and culture, the various buildings of the Smithsonian Institute.
The screen presented a collage of revelers biting into sausages and baklava and meat pies with unpronounceable names. Less than a minute into the story, the camera zoomed in on the happy couple. Hannibal was focused on the twenty-six inch screen, but he heard Bea drag in a ragged breath as the cameraman zoomed in with that jerky movement now popular, and framed up Dean’s face.
Hannibal didn’t react, but he was surprised. He was briefly displeased with himself for making assumptions. He expected a slick looking, dapper brother of the Tay Diggs school. Instead, he was staring into a rounded, clean-shaven Caucasian face, with straw-colored hair falling into eyes that crinkled almost shut when he smiled. He was a little on the heavy side, clearly not athletic, in stonewashed jeans and a flannel shirt. He had rolled the sleeves halfway up his arms. And when he slipped his arm around Bea’s waist, her face lit with new love.
He babbled something about "having a stone blast out here, like Epcot Center in Disney World," and the whole time he was speaking into the camera, Bea’s eyes were on him, watching his precious words being formed by thin lips and pushed out between white, even teeth. Yep, he had her.
Hannibal rewound to the closest shot of Dean and froze the picture. Perfect con artist looks, he thought. Average height, weight, hair and eye color, common haircut, no facial hair, nothing to make him stand out in a crowd, or a lineup.
"This is all you’ve got?" Hannibal asked.
Bea was startled. "Surely you’d recognize him from this. I’ve just never taken any pictures or anything."
Hannibal stopped and ejected the tape. "I don’t need pictures for myself, Miss Collins. I need to distribute pictures if we’re going to find this guy. I need to be able to leave them in as many hands as possible in places he might go: airports, train stations, bus stations. If he told you the truth about his profession, maybe computer companies. Does he have a car?"
"No. No car. Is that important?"
"Well it means we add taxi stands and rental car agencies to our distribution list," Hannibal said. He glanced at Cindy who nodded slightly. No car meant mobility, a man who probably didn’t plan on staying in one place too long. A bad sign.
Cindy stood, one hand to her chin. "Hannibal, can’t you get a still made from the video? I’m sure we’ve had that done at the office."
"I can," he said, handing the tape back to Bea. She handled it like a precious artifact, gently guiding it back into her purse. "The image quality will be crap if I take it from VHS though. What I will do, is trot on down to Channel 8 and see if I can talk somebody down there into printing a still frame from the original broadcast quality Betacam tape. That might be clear enough. Then we run off fifty glossies and then the legwork begins. Now, would you be kind enough to escort Miss Collins back to the party?"
Bea stood, her spine as straight as a reed, and at that moment looking just as fragile. "That’s it? Is that all you’re going to do?"
Hannibal sighed, thinking how much this woman really didn’t want what he was sure to find if his hunt was successful. "No, Miss Collins it isn’t. I’m going to change my clothes. Then you and I are going to take a ride over to your apartment so I can look around, maybe learn a little more about this Dean Edwards."
Half an hour later, Hannibal followed Bea down his front steps to the Washington DC street. The sunshine was still bright, but the world looked different to him. Out here, in front of his three story tenement, poverty blew in on him like the hot breath from a panting engine. Boys traveled in gangs and older people moved quickly, not looking left or right. Even the few trees on his block struggled to maintain their lives at the edge of the sidewalk. And he was no longer on vacation. He was at work, and his work was always grim.
Hannibal looked different too. Now in his black suit and tie, wearing his signature Oakley sunglasses, he felt more businesslike. Black driving gloves did not impede his pushing the button on his remote control to unlock the white Volvo. He held the door for Bea to get into what was the only new car on the block. Once behind the wheel, he started the CD player, filling the car with the sound of Wynton Marsalis’ unique interpretations of movement and sound, melody and rhythm. With an easy smile he pulled away from the curb, headed for the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
Relaxing back into the white leather, Hannibal asked, "Just what is a professional woman like you doing in this neighborhood, Miss Collins?"
"My mother and Mother Washington were very close, Mister Jones," Bea said. She sat very straight and looked forward at the crumbling inner city beyond the windshield. "I still attend her church. Every Sunday. The Lord has brought me everything, Mister Jones with never a trial, until..."
Hannibal nodded. "Until now. Well, maybe we can make this a short trial. And please, call me Hannibal okay?"
Bea nodded and sat quietly for a while. Hannibal drove them across the Potomac River and onto the George Washington Parkway. Past Reagan National Airport the park on their left was overrun with joggers, picnickers, and the occasional fisherman trying to make the river give up its rock fish. Three small sailboats seemed to be playing tag against the background of the well wooded Maryland shore.
"And what about you, er, Hannibal?" Bea asked. "I understand you are a successful businessman. What takes you to that neighborhood?"
"Long story. I’m surprised Mother Washington hasn’t told you." Hannibal turned left at the second light into the part of Alexandria locals called old town, then right on Fairfax, the street closest to the river. As other streets moved closer to the river, he turned to keep the open water on his left. "So tell me, how long have you known this Dean Edwards?"
Two blocks of expensive townhouses passed. Bea watched Hannibal’s face until she was ready to answer but when she did she turned to stare into her own lap. "Three months. You think I’m being a crazy woman, don’t you? You won’t find him. You don’t think I should even be looking."
Hannibal parked in the numbered space designated for Bea’s home. The new bank of colorful townhouses called Ford’s Landing hung at the edge of the Potomac shore. All brick homes, with private garages, private patios facing the water, and price tags reaching almost a million dollars. Hannibal gained a new appreciation for the value of interior design. Or at least, for the value some wealthy people must put on interior design.
Bea’s home was almost in the shadow of the Woodrow Wilson bridge which carried a couple hundred thousand commuters from Maryland to Virginia and back every day. Today the bridge was quiet but Hannibal could imagine the din of the traffic she must hear every weekday. The coarse smell of the Potomac splashed across his face as he opened his car door. Actually the smell would mostly be from the waste treatment plant across the river, not far down on his left. He wondered briefly how this could be one of the most sought after addresses in the city.
Bea gripped his hand before he could quite get out of the car. When he looked back she said, "Will you find him, Mister Jones?"
"Hannibal," he repeated, smiling into her soft eyes. "And if I don’t find the man, it won’t be for lack of trying. You hired me to do a job, not to judge anyone. You’ll have to trust me. Can you trust me?"
Bea smiled, and looked even more vulnerable for it. "I handed the keys to my Lexus to your girlfriend, didn’t I? Yes, I trust you. You, and Mother Washington, and the Lord who brought us together."
*****
Bea’s three level home told Hannibal volumes about her, but there was scant evidence of a male resident. Bea explained that she had spent most of Saturday in a slowly growing panic, and when she was upset, she cleaned. He noticed a copy of Architectural Digest on a glass end table, open to the picture of what looked like a huge, rambling hotel.
"My work," Bea said. He saw Bea cited as interior designer, and read part of the description under the heading "Best Rental Development."
This 262-unit rental community features an upscale appearance and quality finishes in apartments designed to appeal to employees of local high-tech companies. The development features two distinct building styles: high density, 1- and 2-bedroom"atrium" units that range in size from 717 to 1208 square feet and feature subterranean parking; and low-density, 1-, 2- and 3-bedroom "villa" units that form the perimeter of the development and have direct-access garages and private entries. Units feature such desirable amenities as ceramic tile counters, custom cabinets and flooring, marble fireplaces, crown molding, and upgraded lighting...
Hannibal whistled aloud. "You did this? I imagined you picking the drapes in rich people's houses."
"All my work," Bea said, "and not just the residence areas. I designed the interiors of the 10,000-square-foot resident pavilion, the business center, gourmet commercial kitchen, billiards room and even the fitness center."
Hannibal dropped the magazine and moved to the kitchen. "Not many start in the hood and fly so high. Is that what Sidwell Friends School does for you?"
Bea stopped mid-step. "How did you..."
"Lucky guess," Hannibal said, opening an extremely orderly cabinet filled with glassware. "You don’t talk like public school. Your folks must have worked their butts off to get you into that place."
Hannibal closed the cabinet and continued to explore Bea’s home. She was proud when he went through her kitchen, and clearly embarrassed when he entered her bedroom, despite the fact that it looked like a showroom. At Hannibal’s insistence Bea checked her jewelry case and quite arrogantly announced that nothing was missing.
"Good," Hannibal said, exploring the dresser she had assigned to Dean. "Did you have any cash in the house?"
Pause. "Maybe a couple of hundred dollars I guess."
"And where is that?"
"Well I figure he must have needed some expense money, after all."
The big walk-in closet was clearly divided. Her clothes very orderly on the left, his on the right. Dean had left most of his clothes behind, but they were in no way remarkable. Hannibal found what would be a set of luggage on the overhead racks, but the second largest piece was missing.
Hannibal found British Sterling cologne in the bathroom. Otherwise he used her toothpaste, soap and shampoo, no brand of his own. And Hannibal doubted a fingerprint team could have proved that a second person ever lived there after Bea’s cleaning binge. His toothbrush and comb were gone, so not even a stray sample of the man’s hair remained.
Yes, Dean was remarkable for the footprint he did not leave behind. Bea confirmed he had brought no pictures when he moved in, no music, no games, and only a handful of books which he took when he left. After forty-five minutes in her apartment, Hannibal knew no more about Dean Edwards than when he arrived.
On Bea’s front landing the afternoon sun made the world seem a lot cleaner than it was. They moved slowly on their way to the car, floating through an idyllic setting that had nothing to do with the ache on Bea’s face. She waved sullenly to a middle aged white man who was lovingly paste waxing a maroon Jaguar XJ6 of indeterminate age.
"If he keeps at it, that car will shine as bright as his scalp," Hannibal said.
"Oh, Murray’s okay," Bea said. "No crime against being chubby, white and bald. He’s a good neighbor, and he’s out here doing something on that car every Saturday and Sunday."
"Really? Did he see Dean leave?"
"Maybe," she said, reaching for the Volvo’s door handle.
"Maybe? You mean you haven’t asked him?"
Hannibal turned and headed back toward the Jaguar. Murray kept his head down and his arm moving in a smooth circular motion. Hannibal understood. He was an unknown and Murray didn’t want any trouble with his neighbor. So Hannibal stood, watching his own reflection in the maroon hood until Bea reached his side. Then he took Bea’s hand and broadened his smile to its limit.
"Excuse me. Got a minute?"
Murray looked up, his eyes flicking from Hannibal to Bea and back. Then Murray smiled in return, nodded and muttered, "Much better" under his breath. His expression said he approved of the new man more than the last one. "What can I do for you?"
"That car’s a beauty. Must take a lot of work, eh?"
Murray grinned bigger. "Sorry sport, she’s not for sale if that’s what you’re thinking."
"Actually, Bea tells me you were working on her yesterday too. Thought you might have seen Dean go out."
"Maybe," Murray said. His eyes grew wary and his focus shifted to Bea. "Why? You after him?"
Hannibal patted Bea’s hand in his. "Well he hasn’t been back since yesterday morning and, well, Bea’s a bit worried about him. I thought you might have noticed what time it was or which way he went."
Conflict contorted Murray’s face. Hannibal thought he might not want to get involved with a neighbor’s personal life. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Or maybe he knew something he wasn’t sure he should share. Hannibal reevaluated the man’s age and probable social background, and decided how he should proceed. He turned to Bea and his smile became condescending.
"Honey, why don’t you go ahead and get in the car and let the men talk for a minute, okay?"
Bea looked confused but obeyed. Hannibal resisted slapping her fanny for effect, but he did pick up a chamois and start slowly rubbing the Jaguar’s fender. Murray was silent for a moment, then seemed to realize he had control of the conversation. Some people are comfortable with silence. Hannibal had judged correctly that Murray was not.
"You going to take care of her? Instead of her taking care of you?"
"I’m not Dean, if that’s what you mean," Hannibal said softly.
Murray worked the chrome of the door handle with more concentration than necessary. "He left around ten thirty. Right behind the woman."
"Woman?" Hannibal asked. "Are you saying he had another woman here?" He did not have to fake his indignation. Bea deserved better.
"White woman," Murray said, as if that was significant. "Skinny blonde dame, older than him by a ways. She hit that door as soon as Miss Collins rounded the corner."
Murray glanced around as if he was looking for someplace to spit. Hannibal nodded in agreement with his sentiments. "How long was she in there?"
"Maybe half an hour. Just about long enough, if you know what I mean."
"And Dean came out five or ten minutes later," Hannibal said aloud but to himself. Time enough to quickly pack. So who was the woman? Certainly not a lover as Murray clearly assumed. "He was carrying a suitcase. Did he leave on foot? Which way did he head?"
Murray sat back on his haunches. "What are you, some kind of a detective?"
"Something like that. Just trying to help Bea out. Which way?"
"He was walking when he left," Murray said, glancing over at Bea in Hannibal’s car. "Never looked left or right, just headed up toward Washington Street. Looked like he was in an awful hurry to get away from here. Can’t understand it myself. She’s a peach, that girl."
Hannibal nodded again. "Thanks for the help, mister. I think maybe the only way for her to understand what this guy was, is to face him again. If I can find him, then maybe..."
Hannibal shook Murray’s hand just as Bea’s silver Lexus pulled into the parking lot beside Hannibal’s car. He reached it in time to see Cindy hand Bea her keys.
"That was fun," Cindy said. "Might have to get myself a car one of these days."
"You don’t own a car?" Bea asked, as if Cindy had just revealed she didn’t wear underwear.
"She prefers to hand her money to cab drivers," Hannibal said, "or ride around with me."
Cindy slipped a possessive arm around Hannibal’s waist. "Yep, this is my favorite cabby right here. So, did you get anywhere, honey?"
Honey was what Cindy called Hannibal in the presence of unattached women. He considered it only marginally more subtle than the method dogs use to mark their territory. "I was just getting the lay of the land here, Cindy. The work will start after I get some pictures to distribute."
"When can we get started with that?" Bea asked.
"If the reporter or cameraman who covered the event you and Dean attended is at work today I should get them pretty quickly," Hannibal said. "I, not we."
"I want to come with you."
"Bea," Hannibal said as gently as he could, "I’m sorry but we can’t do this together. I can do this. Or you can do this. The choice, of course, is up to you."
The woman actually pouted. "But I want to do something."
"Then stay by the phone," Hannibal said. "He might call or send a message. But let me do the searching, all right?"
*****
News Channel 8 was all local and all news and, predictably, a twenty-four hour operation. But despite what Hannibal told Bea, he was surprised to find the reporter he needed to talk to at work on a Sunday evening. Yet there she stood, not so perky as she appeared on screen, standing over the young man at the controls in a darkened editing room, directing the construction of another video story.
Hannibal had called the station soon after driving away from Bea’s house. He had learned that the girl in question, Irma Andrews, was the newest television reporter on staff. That being the case, it was no surprise that she drew many of the weekend fluff assignments. He also learned that she would be in-house on that Sunday evening, helping a videotape editor turn her latest script into two or three minutes of video news.
After placing that call, he had joined Cindy for dinner at the Blue Pointe Grill, a seafood haven on Washington Street, Alexandria’s main thoroughfare. It had become Cindy’s favorite eating spot since the day they found themselves two tables away from John Ashcroft. As far as lawyers go, this was a celebrity just short of a supreme court justice. Hannibal’s only memory of that night was that for an Attorney General, he seemed to be a pretty poor tipper.
Hannibal told Cindy what he learned from Murray over swordfish marinated with rosemary.
"A woman?" she asked between bites. "How terrible for Bea. Another lover you think?"
"Actually, I’m thinking an accomplice. Maybe his partner come to tell him it was time to move on to the next vulnerable mark."
"Hannibal, if you think this Dean guy is a con man just getting close to her to get into her bank account, then why’d he run?"
Hannibal chewed thoughtfully. "Who knows. Maybe the woman’s a spotter who has an even better mark set up for him. Or maybe the police are on his trail and getting a little too close for comfort. He might need to just disappear for while. Lots of possible reasons."
"Okay," she said, not willing to let it go and just enjoy dinner. "Suppose you’re right. He’s just a con man. She’s in love with him, and he’s gone for good. In that case, why find him at all?"
"Because, Cindy dear, that is what I’m being paid to do."
*****
Less than a thirty-minute drive took Hannibal to the offices of NWS8 in Springfield, Virginia. And five minutes of friendly chat with several members of the skeleton staff on duty got him to what they called the edit tank where Irma Andrews was working. When she turned to face him, her piercing eyes moved over his entire body, from top to bottom, scanning him into her memory banks. The soft, open persona she projected on television was totally absent. In this woman’s out-thrust jaw and pointed nose he read the kind of dogged determination that so often makes a good detective. And he supposed that, in a way, that was what a good reporter was.
"And you’re Hannibal Jones," Irma said, "and you need my help and it has to do with the feature I made last weekend which first aired Monday morning. You’re not police. I don’t think a lawyer. Maybe related to someone I interviewed but.... no. A private detective?"
Her stately frame leaned naturally forward and her eyes didn’t blink as often as they should. It was a rare person who could put Hannibal off balance, but here stood one of them. "Private, yes," he said. "I can see you’re busy, but I’m hoping you’ll take a minute to print me out a still photo from that video."
Irma looked over her shoulder at her editor, who waved her on. She tossed her scarlet locks and motioned for Hannibal to follow her. Her strut seemed exaggerated to him, and accented by the tightness of her jeans, but her walk was so forceful and aggressive it lost all sensuousness. Under her breath she mumbled "I wish you guys would all get together on these
things."
They entered another edit cell, smaller than eight by ten feet, the two long walls lined with what looked to Hannibal like the controls of the Starship Enterprise. Irma handed Hannibal a pad of preprinted forms and a pen.
"You’ll have to fill that out when I give you the picture," she said. Then she pulled a videotape from a wall rack and dropped into a chair. She pushed the tape, thinner but longer and wider than a VHS cassette, into a machine and her fingers began to play over a bank of controls, shuttling around the tape, looking for the right story.
"You shoot in Beta format?" Hannibal asked.
"Right," Irma said. "Beta SP actually. The boys shoot on little twenty-minute cassettes, but each reporter can archive their stories on one of these sixties. You know something about this stuff?"
"Not really," Hannibal said, watching the blurred images fly past on a small monitor. "Do people ask you to do this all the time?"
The images slowed and an anchor came into view, introducing the story. "Actually it’s pretty rare," Irma said. "Not many people even know we can do this. But I had to print out a still for somebody else from this particular story a few days ago. In fact it was Monday night, not long after we aired it. The usual thing, they wanted a clear picture of a relative. I assume that’s not your purpose."
"No, I need copies to distribute. The person we’re looking for has come up missing."
"Oh, well in that case you want more than a print." Servo motors whined as Irma put the tape player into normal speed. She pushed her wheeled chair a few feet to the side and punched a button, starting a computer. "Once you pick out the image I’ll copy it to a floppy. You can get as many copies of that digital image as you want from lots of places."
"Appreciate it," Hannibal said, watching the action move along, watching Bea come into view, and the zoom he’d seen before, to lock onto Dean’s face. "That’s our boy."
"Really," Irma said slowly. She was moving the tape forward and back. Seen a frame at a time, it looked very much like a piece of motion picture film going past.
"A lot to choose from," Hannibal said. "I thought the sequence was shorter."
"At thirty frames a second, there are a lot of images to choose from. But this is the best one." She pushed more buttons, and a variety of hums and clicks started. "So what’s up with this fellow? He in some kind of trouble or something?"
"Like I said, he’s missing," Hannibal said. "If there’s more to the story, I don’t know it yet."
Irma lapsed into silence while she gathered the print of Dean’s face and the floppy disc she had loaded the image onto. Then she left the room. Hannibal followed her into a cubicle barely big enough to stand and turn around in. The desk she sat at was covered with papers, most of them bearing a small precise handwriting he assumed was hers. She gestured to a chair in the next cubicle, and Hannibal dragged it over. He sat, crossed his legs, flipped the top page on the forms pad over and began to fill in the requested information.
"Not yet," Irma repeated. "Well, the woman who came Monday wanted a shot of the same boy." Direct and to the point. Hannibal liked that. "She said she was related, but now I have to wonder."
Hannibal kept writing. He wasn’t sure yet how he should handle this. What was this young reporter after?
Irma moved a bit closer. Not the kind of closeness that implies intimacy, but rather the kind that applies a subtle pressure. "Look, just tell me if there’s a story here, huh? I don’t want to do festivals in the park the rest of my life."
Now he knew. He didn’t think he had anything newsworthy, but this woman might be helpful if she thought there could be something in it for her. He considered his answer carefully, because lying would be counterproductive. "Miss Andrews, I’ve been on this case only a few hours. Right now it’s a man who’s run away without telling his fiancee. Not much there, but it could be anything. What if he’s running from the law? Or from the mob? Or the woman you met earlier in the week could be his sister, separated at birth, searching for him."
"Not likely," Irma said. "This woman looked a couple decades older than your boy there."
"Really?" Hannibal said. He sat quite still, his hands on the arms of his chair, but the middle finger of his left hand began to tap up and down. "Blonde woman, on the thin side?"
"That’s right, bottle blonde. Brown eyes. Long, conservative cut flowered dress. Makeup carefully applied. And there is something going on here."
"Won’t know until I find him will I?" Hannibal asked, handing over the completed form. Irma scanned the form the same way she had scanned Hannibal. He braced to stand, but her upraised hand stopped him.
"Just two questions. Please. First, is Jones your real name?" In response Hannibal handed her one of his simple white cards. There wasn’t much there: His name, address, telephone number and the word "Troubleshooter" in bold block letters.
"I think I may have heard something about you," Irma said. "All right. If. If this turns out to be a story that could be of general interest. If it does, will you call me?"
Hannibal stood and removed his glasses. She stared at his eyes, the way they often did. "If this ends up on the news in any way, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’re the reporter who breaks it, okay?"
"Fair enough," Irma said rising and extending her hand. Hannibal accepted it and the strong handshake that came with it. "And you’re a story in yourself, aren’t you? A black man with blue eyes. Or are they?"
*****
Hannibal drove just two blocks away from the television station before he pulled to the curb again. His instincts told him that Irma was a good reporter, and right now that was a bad thing. He had gotten lucky and tripped over a clue to Dean’s location. But she had the clue as well, and if she got involved she might chase it all away.
He flipped on the interior light and unfolded the form he had pocketed on his way to Irma’s desk. It had been on top of the pad of forms he had filled out. Feeling a bit childish, Hannibal pulled a pencil from his glove compartment and began rubbing the side of the point across the form. Of course there was no way to be sure the woman who wanted Dean’s picture was the last person to fill one of these out. But it seemed a pretty secure guess.
A woman’s flowery script slowly came into view. The name was Mary Irons. The address looked to be a hotel room on Richmond Highway, just south of Alexandria. That fit Hannibal’s theory nicely. He turned off the light and put his car into gear. He knew Irma could find the same address in Channel 8’s files in the morning. She might be tempted to go looking for the thin blonde woman and chase her away. With luck, he could pin Dean down tonight, before Irma went looking for the mystery woman tomorrow.
On his way through the darkened streets, Hannibal popped an old Elton John CD into his player and began to rethink his position. Why would Dean’s accomplice need his picture from the news? Perhaps just to prove to him he wasn’t keeping a low enough profile. A good reason to tell him to move on. Maybe, but the idea wasn’t hanging together as well as it once had.
It made even less sense as Hannibal pulled into the Alexandria Motel’s parking area. The motel was one long building, one story tall and one room wide, sitting with its short end facing the street but at an off angle. Its front doors faced the back of a brick building, a Chinese restaurant judging from the smell of the dumpsters. Peeling white paint covered the structure, and a row of narrow pillars supported a short overhang in front of the dozen or so doors. In the dying sunlight the place almost looked haunted, but he figured the only spirit around there was the ghost of disuse. Hannibal drove past the target door and parked at the far end of the drive. When he shut his car door the sound echoed ominously between the motel and the back of the restaurant.
Hannibal knocked on the door of the room registered to Mary Irons, then stepped back from it. He had no idea what to expect but he was sure of one thing. No successful confidence man or woman would stay here. This was not the motel room of anyone fleecing wealthy marks.
When the door opened inward Hannibal was faced with another surprise. a man wearing only jeans and a belligerent expression.
"Yeah?" is all the man said. He was Hannibal’s height but a bit bulkier. Steel gray hair topped a swarthy Mediterranean face. Ink black eyebrows formed a pitched roof above dark eyes which were always looking for trouble. Hannibal guessed they had seen a lot of it. A mass of steel wool cluttered the man’s chest. A tattoo of a rose covered his left shoulder, and a chain tattoo wrapped his right biceps.
"You must be Mister Irons," Hannibal said with a small smile.
"So?"
Friendly sort, Hannibal thought. "I need to speak to Mary if you don’t mind."
The man squared his shoulders, sending a universal message. "She ain’t here. Beat it." His breath threw the odor of stale beer into Hannibal’s face.
"Look, this is a matter of some importance." Hannibal held his hands out in a gesture of peace, while subtly bracing for an attack.
"I said get lost," Irons said, his voice low. His right foot moved forward and the heel of his right hand slammed out for Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal stood his ground and clamped both his hands over Irons’. By twisting slightly he locked Irons’ elbow. Then Hannibal leaned forward slightly. Startled, the bigger man found himself driven to his knees.
"Who’s there, Harry?" A woman’s voice called from inside.
Harry looked up at Hannibal and shook his head slightly from side to side. He was ready to concede rather than have his woman see him in this position. Well, no point in embarrassing him. Besides, Hannibal wondered how much he knew. He released Harry’s hand and raised his voice. "I’m Hannibal Jones and I’d like just a moment of your time, ma’am. It’s about your photography order."
Harry got quickly to his feet. Hannibal stood on the other side of the portal in the outside world and watched Harry’s eyes, as Harry watched his. The standoff lasted forever. Then, three minutes later, the woman spoke again very close behind Harry.
"Honey, would you excuse us for a minute? Please?" Harry turned and although Hannibal couldn’t see his face, he could imagine what was there. The woman raised a hand to his cheek, smiled and whispered, "It’s all right. I promise."
Harry walked back into the shabby room and the woman stepped forward across the threshold.
"Mary Irons?" Hannibal asked.
"Who are you and why are you here? No one knows me here."
Hannibal handed her his card, and waited for her to read it and try to imagine his purpose. If she did, she was not about to let him know.
"What’s this about, Mister Jones?" she asked, easing the door closed behind her.
"I think you know. You wanted a photo of Dean Edwards. Then you went and visited him. I’d like to know why."
She took a minute to appear to be searching her memory. "Dean Edwards? I’m not sure I know him. Friend of yours?"
The harsh shadows of twilight didn’t help her one bit. Dark roots held her thin yellow hair in place. Makeup could not conceal the lines of worry, of fear, of living etched into her face. Not a hard woman, he decided, not a criminal. Yet there was a steel rod at her center, deep down. And much of her surface tenderness had been worn away somehow. All that aside, she was certainly no confidence woman. She was, in fact, an abysmal liar.
"I’m not accusing you of a crime, ma’am. But I have an eyewitness who says you were at his house Saturday morning from about ten-thirty to maybe eleven a.m. You waited until his fiancee had left for a shopping trip. Shall I describe what you were wearing?"
She was jumpy as a caged hamster, and she reacted to his words as if they were a series of blows. Her china blue eyes appeared chipped. "No, that won’t be necessary. I guess you must mean that boy I saw Saturday. He wasn’t who I thought he was."
"Really? And who did you think he was?" Hannibal turned away and took a small step away to ease the pressure on her. She followed, maintaining a constant two-foot distance. Then they were walking together.
"Someone else," she said. "Someone I knew a long time ago. I’ve been away a long time, Mister Jones. People change over the course of a decade."
Now that she was talking, Hannibal decided to be quiet for a minute to see what fell out. Most people hate silence. It is often the interrogator’s best weapon. While he waited, he examined her body language and posture. She had been a hellcat once, he decided, but something had squeezed that out of her. From what little he knew of Dean Edwards, this woman was more likely to be one of his old victims than his old partner. Someone had hurt her deeply, and it could well have been Dean.
Just as he was about to give up on quiet, she said, "Look, Mister, I don’t want any trouble and I hope you won’t tell that young man where I am. Harry and me, we’re trying to keep a low profile here, okay?"
She didn’t know. She probably thought Dean sent him looking for her. They turned and headed back toward the door. It was open a crack and Hannibal saw one of Harry’s eyes in the dark space. When they reached the end of their little stroll, Hannibal positioned himself so that the woman’s body blocked Harry’s view of him. He handed her one of his cards.
"If you think of anything you think someone ought to know, give me a call, okay?" he said. "I don’t know what this Dean Edwards might be involved in, but it could reach out and touch you too."
*****
Sitting in his car in the gathering gloom, Hannibal took a moment to wonder why on earth he had felt the need for that burst of honesty. He had no idea who Mary and Harry were or how they tied into Dean’s story. He didn’t think they could be hiding him, but they must be part of his past. Unless of course she was telling him the truth.
Hannibal turned the key. His engine purred smoothly but before he could put the car into gear, a pair of hands slapped down on the hood. Harry Irons stood in front of him, as if suicide were his only option to prove his superiority. The woman was nowhere in sight. Hannibal turned off the engine, tugged his gloves on tighter, and opened the door.
"Do we have unfinished business?" he asked, stepping out of the car.
"Not like you think," Harry said. He leaned back against the car and pulled out a Zippo lighter. He dragged hard and deep on a Winston, letting the smoke escape his nose. Hannibal saw Harry as a man of traditions. This was a ritual to set up a conversation. Man to man talk. Hannibal leaned against the door, his arms crossed.
"You ever done time, Jones?"
"Can’t say I have, Harry," Hannibal replied. "But some close friends have told me what it does to you."
Harry’s face clouded over and he stared at his feet. He held his cigarette like Sinatra. "You got a woman, Jones?"
"Yes, I have a woman."
"Love her?" Harry asked, looking at Hannibal out the corner of his eye.
Hannibal grinned. "As a matter of fact I do."
"He could have any young chippy he wants, you know," Harry said, his eyes on a cloud in the night sky. "Don’t bring him around here to take mine. I been taking care of Mary for almost a year now. It hasn’t been easy for her. But she’s got what she needs."
"Then he’s out of her past," Hannibal said.
Harry nodded and shifted his feet uneasily. "She’s crazy about him, you know. I mean, whatever he did to her, he makes her crazy. But he’s too young for her. I could see that."
Hannibal sighed in sympathy. Harry nodded, and sucked hard on his cigarette. "So you’ve met Edwards?"
"We saw him from across the street," Harry said through clenched teeth. "She was following him like a lovesick puppy. Him and his designer damn suit and his candy apple red fucking Corvette with its faggot vanity plates."
Hannibal fought to control his breathing. Instead of surprise, he forced a smile onto his face and released a little chuckle. "Faggot vanity plates," he repeated, as if it was the funniest thing he’d heard that day.
Harry joined in the laughter. "Yeah buddy. Unless the other girl’s name is Kitty. Is that it?"
Hannibal never had to answer. The natural tunnel formed by the motel and the restaurant it faced carried one soft word to them. "Harry?" He stood faster than he would have liked, then effected a relaxed attitude Hannibal recognized.
"I’m going to get back there. She needs me."
"I think she does," Hannibal said, extending a hand. "Go take care of her. And take care of yourself."
MONDAY
The telephone waited until almost nine-thirty to ring. Not bad for a Monday morning. By then Hannibal had run his five miles, showered, eaten his Cheerios and pulled on his working clothes. Now he sat at his desk dealing with the paperwork the government uses to keep the small business man in his place. Fortunately these days, most of those papers are really streams of electrons and he was finally becoming pretty comfortable maintaining his records on his computer. Steam curled from his second cup of coffee and a Quincy Jones album sprinkled the room with soft but pulsing background music. Hannibal smiled at the phone for waiting until he was ready for it.
"Mister Jones? It’s Anna. Can you come out here? I need some help. Can I hire you?" The words poured out of her mouth like water from a burst dam, jolting Hannibal into rigid attention.
"Slow down a bit and tell me what’s wrong."
"He’s here," she said. Keeping her voice low didn’t cover the panic. "Ike is here. He showed up here at work not much after I arrived. I’m afraid he’ll do something."
"Where are you exactly?"
Anna was having trouble catching her breath. "I’m at the Springfield DMV office, over on Franconia. He keeps coming in and going out again. Now he’s just standing there by the door, staring at my cage. I just know he’ll do something crazy."
Hannibal thought about facing that giant again. It was not a fun thought. "What about the police, Anna? Has your office called them?"
"He hasn’t really done anything. And I’m afraid he might go crazy if some uniformed stranger was to push him. He knows you."
Hannibal was about to protest again. Then an image came to him, an image of Isaac Ingersoll on a rampage in a crowded government building. Somebody was sure to get hurt if the police handled the situation, maybe Isaac worst of all. And clearly Anna didn’t want that, despite all her husband had done to her. He was not there out of hate, but out of a confused love. If Hannibal might be able to defuse the situation, he really had no choice but to go. He might be able to end the situation with a little talk.
Still, before he slipped his jacket on and pushed his Oakley sunglasses into place, he shoved his Sig Sauer P229 into the holster under his right shoulder.
