Untitled

DAMAGED GOODS

by Austin S. Camacho

-1-

FRIDAY

"Do you believe in fate?" Tonya shouted over the thumping dance music. Anita nodded, staring through closely packed dancers at the man in the black suit and Oakley sunglasses. He seemed isolated in the crowd, not talking to anyone, but somehow aware of everyone. Sometimes, Anita did believe in fate. And something about this man told her he could be a big part of her future.

"Not that one." Tonya shook her friend's shoulder and pointed. "Over here, my sister. That's for me." Anita recognized the focus of Tonya's attention. After all, who wouldn't recognize Hugo "Huge" Wilson? He was one of the most successful hip-hop producers around. He kept studios down in Virginia Beach, but Anita knew why he came up to Washington to party. There was still a lot of musical talent left untapped here, and Huge was a star maker, the person who could turn a man with good rhymes or a woman with a decent voice into the next Jay-Z or Toni Braxton.

The Zei was three-levels of flash and pumping energy powered by two disc jockeys, quick cut videos and a light show in constant frantic movement. It was also the somehow sweet scent of frantic dancers sweating out expensive colognes. And overwhelming everything was the music, so thick it actually filled the space and made Anita's throat vibrate when she sipped her cognac. What Tonya called electric was for Anita sensory overload. From the edge of the fifteen hundred square foot dance floor Anita could look up at the two higher levels. The third level of Zei, which Tonya called The Prive, was a private area of the club reserved for members and their guests. Huge was making his way toward The Prive, not hurrying, distributing high fives and soul handshakes along the way.

Despite the whirlpool of activity surrounding Huge as he moved through the crowd, Anita's eyes were drawn back to the man who first arrested her attention. Although the music shifted from house to hip hop to R & B dance and the bass was so insistent that it forced her heart to fall into its rhythm, this man remained a point of calm in the midst of the sensual storm. His was the only head not bobbing, as if he was immune to the siren call of the music. He looked very alert, and he seemed to keep track of Huge's movements without ever looking at him. He was looking for something else.

Unlike Huge, this man made no fashion statement at all. He wore a plain black suit and shoes. He was black, but even lighter than Huge. Here were two men of average height and weight, but one commanded the attention of the entire room, while the other was almost invisible. Despite that, or maybe because of it, the seated man held her attention. She felt that she and the stranger were alike in being out of phase with the world around them.

Anita was there mostly because she had become tired of fighting it. Tonya was a good friend who was determined to save Anita from herself. She had to admit that since Rod left her social life had withered and died for lack of interest. She had come out solely to appease her friend, but now she wondered if this was where she was meant to be tonight.

The stranger stood from his low chair with cat-like grace. Until then, Anita hadn't noticed that black gloves covered his hands. He tightened them as he slid through the crowd toward Huge Wilson. Only then did she become aware of two others moving toward Huge. Wilson's smile never wavered, but his path began to bend.

"Oh my God," Tonya said, leaping to her feet and smoothing her little black dress. "He's heading our way. I told you he was here for me, girl."

Anita kept her seat, uncomfortable as the room's spotlight shifted toward them. It did look as if Huge would walk right into Tonya who was literally panting in anticipation of the moment. The two brothers following him were both very big, like the men you see power lifting in the Olympics, and they glittered. One had a mouthful of gold that flashed when his lips parted, echoing the blonde frosting across the top of his black hair, and his suit jacket shoulders were dusted with glitter. The other man, in a wife beater and jeans, was completely bald. His head glistened in the house's flashing lights. They looked to her like trouble headed her way.

As Huge approached, the music seemed to swell in Anita's head. A follow spot was tracing his movement, light glinting off his gold Rolex and the oversized platinum cross hanging from his neck. As his smile turned toward Tonya, the light moved to envelop her as well. Anita shifted to her side, sliding into Huge's shadow. Inches from her face, his arm rose slowly through that darkness toward the light. He was from another world, a world she didn't know. As his hand moved Tonya's face, it seemed that world would touch hers.

Tonya's eyes sparkled and her tongue touched her upper lip. She looked as if she might pass out at the coming touch. But Huge's hand stopped a whisper away from Tonya's cheek. Another hand had fallen on Huge's shoulder. The big man with the mouthful of gold pulled hard, spinning Huge around.

"Yo, nigga," the big man shouted. "You won't answer my calls, but you'll come up in here and dis me in my own town?"

Huge held empty palms forward and maintained his smile. "No disrespect meant, Frost. We're both busy producers, yo."

"Yeah," Frost said, pushing his face almost into Huge's. "I'm busy busting new talent on the scene, and you're busy stealing it from me."

Anita was nearly within reach of the men, close enough to smell their dueling colognes. She noticed Frost's name was cut into his hair on the side facing her. And she saw Huge's eyes flash upward for a second. More than Frost, Huge was aware that he was still in the spotlight.

"Come on, brother, you know it ain't like that. If you'd have signed Big Walter to a decent contract he'd still be with you."

Frost bared his gold teeth the way Anita had seen caged dogs snarl. "I'll show you how we make a contract stick around here." His right hand, on the side away from the spotlight, darted into his pocket. The knife was still opening as his hand came out again. Frost's arm swung out to his right. The four-inch blade swept within inches of Anita's face on its way toward Huge. She didn't even have time scream.

Then the knife froze in space, right in front of her nose. The blade vibrated a little but a black-gloved hand holding Frost's wrist prevented any forward movement.

"That's not the way you want to get into the headlines." The man in black spoke with a relaxed calm that seemed inappropriate to the situation. Then he twisted his arm and somehow Frost ended up on his back. The man in black said, "Excuse me," as he stepped in front of Anita. Then he twisted Frost's wrist and caught the knife in his other hand.

"Who the hell?" Frost asked.

"Hannibal Jones," the man in black said, closing the knife and dropping it into his pocket. "Mr. Wilson had the impression you might be bitter about some recent business. He asked me to help him avoid any trouble." His voice was soft and low, yet somehow Anita could hear him clearly above the noise of the crowded club.

A small circle had opened up around Frost, who stood slowly and brushed himself off. "You're his backup? Please. Hey Hard Dog. Come take care of this."

Frost's bald partner swaggered into the lighted circle. The music continued to thump and the lights continued to flash, but the circle of unoccupied floor expanded a bit more. Hannibal stepped around the edge, maintaining eye contact with the bigger man but holding his fists low. Anita was struck by how round Hard Dog's shoulders were, like two brass knobs mounted on either side of his neck.

"Not the time or place," Hannibal said. "Can't we talk about this?"

In response, Hard Dog swung a right cross toward Hannibal's face. It missed, as did two more fast punches.

"Okay then," Hannibal said. "Let's dance."

Hannibal was bouncing on his toes now, like a prizefighter. His head never held still. Hard Dog punched the air near Hannibal's head three more times while Hannibal circled him, always somehow just out of reach. Then the light was in Anita's eyes and she realized it would be in Hard Dog's face as well.

Because she had to squint, Anita almost missed what happened next. Hannibal's arms were pumping. Hard Dog's head snapped back several times. Hannibal looked almost bored during this display. Anita glanced around and noticed that he was the center of attention now, and that the crowd noise had hushed to a murmur, leaving only the music pushing the action.

Hannibal paused, as if to see what effect his punches were having.

"Enough?"

Anita wasn't sure Hard Dog even knew where he was by then, but he still tried one more time, with a loping right that Hannibal easily sidestepped.

"Guess not," Hannibal said. Then, in what seemed a very businesslike manner, he snapped three side kicks up into Hard Dog's midsection. A final thumping right from Hannibal ended it. Hard Dog was unconscious long before his body collapsed onto the tiles.

After one more brief beat of silence the white noise of human conversation resumed, and Anita felt as if she was waking from a trance. Husky men were gathered around Huge engaged in heated conversation. Club bouncers, she presumed. Tonya had dropped into a chair, still staring wistfully at Huge. And Frost, no longer the center of attention, had also found a nearby chair. His attention was focused on Hannibal.

"This don't end here," Frost said through clenched teeth.

"You want me," Hannibal responded, "You bring your chrome grill on over any time. I'm easy to find." He drew a business card from an inside jacket pocket and flipped it in Frost's general direction. The card fluttered through the air to land on Hard Dog's chest.

Huge wrapped an arm around Hannibal's shoulders. "Hey, you all right, dog," Huge said in a high but clear voice. "Putting you on the payroll was a smart move for sure."

"You said you had some trouble coming from that dude," Hannibal said. "As I told you, trouble is my business. But I think yours is over for now." Hannibal smiled, but it seemed clear to Anita that he was uncomfortable with Huge's casual contact. His smile was convincing, but forced. This was not his reaction to a friend, she thought, but to a client. He was helping Huge with a problem for pay.

"Brother, anything you ever need, you just call on Huge. You know what I'm saying? And I'll have to send you a stack of our latest CD's," Huge said, disengaging and moving back into the party.

"Don't sweat it," Hannibal said. He lowered his voice to add, "I don't listen to that crap."

Then the two men, the star and the man who defended him, wandered off in opposite directions. The music continued, and the open space on the dance floor completely closed except that people carefully avoided tripping over the muscular form spread-eagled on the gleaming tiles.

Anita still felt disconnected, out of phase with her surroundings. As she drifted slowly through the crowd toward Hard Dog she was remembering Tonya's words.

"Do you believe in fate?"

She was jostled hard just as she reached her destination and almost fell over him. There Hard Dog lay, like a man who had simply fallen asleep in the midst of the chaos. His deep chest rose and fell and her eyes followed the small card floating up and down with it. Simple block lettering on it said, "Hannibal Jones" and under that, "Troubleshooter." There was an address and a phone number, and nothing else. If Frost had taken the business card she would have known she was wrong. The fact that he chose to leave it behind told her that perhaps fate had put her in this place at this time for a reason.

Ignored by those around her, she knelt to pick up the card.

-2-

WEDNESDAY

Hannibal hated the numbers. Investigative work was merely drudgery. The physical stuff, the fighting that came with bodyguard duty, that was kind of exciting. Helping people find answers to difficult problems, that part of his job was almost fun. But bookkeeping, record keeping, bill paying and the dreaded taxes made him cringe. Still, it had to be done and this was the morning for him to do it.

The computer in his office told Hannibal that he had finally reached the place he wanted to be. He pushed a button, and electronically transferred a chunk of his most recent fee into his short-term savings account. He was liking the number in that account. It was just a handful of dollars from his target.

Across the room, at the visitor's small table, Sarge sipped his coffee and asked, "So this Huge Wilson fellow, he treat you right?"

"Yeah. As a matter of fact he kicked in a nice bonus. He knew that other producer, Frost, was looking for a confrontation. He's also smart enough to know that that sort of thing is bad for business."

"Yeah, I was wondering about that," Sarge said. "These boys all think they're gangsters. I know that guy travels with his own posse most of the time. They couldn't handle this Frost?"

Hannibal took a big swallow of his own coffee, setting his cup in a shaft of morning sunlight beaming in his front windows. "Sure, if he wanted a mini-gang war on his hands. By ditching them, he tempted Frost into making a move. He knew I could handle the physical stuff, and sort of distance it from him and his crew. But man, I was following that guy for weeks, and he does party hearty."

Sarge was a stocky black man whose hair had receded halfway back on his head, but whose easygoing manner belied his age. He was also a cornerstone of Hannibal's life. Aside from being Hannibal's upstairs neighbor in the building that housed his apartment and his office, Sarge was also the man Hannibal regarded as his best friend. That put him in the position to ask questions no one else could get away with.

"So, at six hundred dollars a day that was a pretty nice payoff. You got enough yet to pop the question?"

Hannibal pushed back from the desk, glaring at Sarge, but grinning as well. "Like it's any of your business, but, yeah, I'm pretty close to where I want to be."

"Like it matters to her," Sarge shook his head, dismissing the idea.

"Maybe not," Hannibal said, "but it matters to me. A brother better have good and plenty of his own before he proposes to a successful lawyer, man. I don't want anybody to think she's going to be supporting me. But yeah, I think I'm about ready to slip this on her hand."

From his desk drawer Hannibal pulled a small gray jewelry box. He flipped it open to reveal a full carat of his future dreams. In shopping for this one piece, Hannibal had learned more about jewelry than he had ever wanted to know. He smiled softly at the clear, colorless ideal-cut diamond, sparkling brightly in its six-prong platinum setting. His mind only touched momentarily on the cost, focused more on what this tiny token represented to him, all the good and potential risk of a lifelong commitment.

"Well, it's about time, I say."

"Yeah? I notice there's no ring on your finger, chump," Hannibal said.

"True that," Sarge said, nodding and staring out the window. "Brother, you just don't know how lucky you are to have a lady like that."

The silence that followed was a bit awkward, but it didn't last long before another of Hannibal's upstairs neighbors pushed through the door. Reynaldo Santiago was short and bulky, and his hair was gathered on the sides and back of his head. After his wife passed away he didn't bring much from his native Cuba except his daughter, his slight accent, and his love for cigars, one of which was already clenched between his teeth.

"Just thought I'd check in before work, fellows. So, what's going on?"

"Just trying to plan out a rosy romantic future for young blood here," Sarge said. "He's still dragging his feet, though."

Ray planted his palms on Hannibal's desk, leaning in close. "What is your problem, Paco? When you going to make an honest woman out of my little girl? She's not going to be there forever, you know. She sees those three-piece-suiters every day at the office, and I sure as hell don't want to end up with one of them for a son-in-law."

Hannibal chuckled and leaned back to avoid the smoke. "Hey, no fair ganging up on me, you two. And Ray, you know you've got to do things just the right way when you're dealing with your daughter. A fellow steps to that woman, you know he got to come correct. As a matter of fact, I was just then trying to think up the right romantic setting to propose to Cindy when you walked in. What do you think about..."?

A tap at the door stopped Hannibal mid-sentence. Then the door swung open and a young black man walked confidently into the room to stop in front of Hannibal's desk. He stood right beside Ray, but seemed not to notice him or Sarge at all.

"You, I presume are Mr. Hannibal Jones?"

The newcomer's precise pronunciation was not the only reason he arrested Hannibal's attention. His hair was cut military-short. He was medium height and build, but his ramrod posture made him look taller. His bearing seemed at odds with his black pants and vest, and the white shirt with French cuffs.

"I am," Hannibal said after a moment. "How can I help you, Mister...?"

"Call me Henry, sir," the newcomer said. "I'm here for Mr. Benjamin Blair. He would like for you to come out to his home this morning to discuss an assignment. He believes you can be of help to him regarding a situation with which he is dealing."

"This morning?" Hannibal asked. "Must be important. Are you Blair's personal assistant?"

"I am his butler, sir."

Sarge barely stifled a chuckle. "Butler. Now there's an occupation you don't hear much about these days."

"Really?" Ray said with a small smile. "I'm a chauffeur, but I don't know any butlers myself. You lay out his clothes and stuff?"

"That would be a valet," Henry replied without humor. His eyes never wavered from Hannibal. "I am in charge of Mr. Blair's household. Mr. Blair is prepared to pay your normal daily fee for a consultation with you this morning. Will ten o'clock be convenient for you?"

Hannibal couldn't tell if Ray was more amused by this arrogant dude or insulted by his attitude. He turned to Hannibal and said, "I got a limousine service to run, Paco. I'll leave you with Jeeves here."

As Ray headed for the door, Hannibal shuffled things on his desk. He knew his schedule was blank for the next week, but he opened his daybook and flipped the page before responding. "Actually, I'd just as soon get out there and meet him right now. Give me the address."

"No need, sir. If we are to leave now, you can simply follow me."

Sarge leaned back in his chair, still fighting an inner laugh. "Another job for the world famous troubleshooter? I thought you were taking a few days off."

"That was the plan," Hannibal said, standing and pulling on his suit coat. "But when a guy like Benjamin Blair has trouble, it's usually serious."

"Ben Blair? Should I know that name?"

"Probably not," Hannibal said. "He's one of the guys who started an Internet company during the boom, but made it stick. Tactical Datamation I think is the name of the outfit."

"If I may sir," Henry said, acknowledging Sarge for the first time. "Unless the stock market has shifted radically in the last twenty-four hours, Mr. Blair is one of the three wealthiest men in the Washington D.C. area."

* * * * *

When Hannibal stepped out the front door of the row house he called home in Southeast Washington D.C. he was dressed for business. For him that meant a black suit and tie, thin black gloves and Oakley wraparound sunglasses. His woman called him a throwback, an anachronism, and on less charitable days, desperately out of style. But his style was his own and he saw no reason to change.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the brick building that held his apartment and his office. When he first saw this place it was a crack house occupied by winos, drug addicts and prostitutes. He enlisted the aid of a small band of homeless men to clean it out and, in the process, found a place in a neighborhood that turned out to be a home worth fighting for. Four of those previously homeless men moved into the other apartments, including Ray Santiago and his good friend Sarge.

Henry climbed into a small Honda and Hannibal prepared to follow. His white Volvo 850 GLT glinted in the sunlight. He had her detailed the day before and was quite pleased with the result. Once belted into her white leather seat he fired the engine up and sat for just a second to listen to her growl and then purr as the engine settled into a smooth idle. Lately he'd been thinking about trading her in, but The White Tornado was perhaps his second best friend. He never called her that in front of anybody, of course. The name just came to him one day when he was pushing down I-95 at close to one hundred miles an hour, blowing every other vehicle on the road out of his way. He loved the car, and it was hard for him to consider letting her adopt another driver.

Hannibal eased through the narrow streets of his neighborhood, keeping Henry's car in sight but still stopping for kids dribbling basketballs or riding skateboards and rollerblades in the Summer streets. People here made do with whatever entertainment did not require money. He'd work his way over to I-66 toward Dulles Airport and within twenty minutes he knew he'd be in a very different neighborhood, where it was all about spending money. With the air conditioner blowing and the smooth jazz of 105.9 FM on the radio, he punched a speed dial button on his car phone. It was time to set the stage.

"Santiago," she said. To Hannibal, her voice was a melody that fit right in with Pat Metheny's tune on the radio.

"Good morning, Cindy. You're in the office way too soon. But then, I'm already on my way to a meeting for a new case. How's it starting out?"

"Hey, baby!" He could hear Cindy drop a stack of books on her desk. "How sweet of you to call so early. Yes I'm in the groove here already today. Got an important meeting myself in a few minutes. I've been given my first Internet business work. One of our clients is opening a new business offering, and I've been handling it. My first one from beginning to end, and all the leading indicators say it's going to be big."

"Not sure what that means, but I guess congratulations," Hannibal said, smiling as if she could see him. "You can explain it all to me tonight at dinner. You're not working late tonight on this important new deal, are you? We are meeting for dinner, right?"

"Oh, thank God you reminded me," Cindy said. "Of course we are. And it's wonderful to have you on a Tuesday night. I don't often get you away from your weekly volunteer work at the homeless shelter. But it's probably best for me to meet you, rather than you coming to pick me up. I might be at the office just a little bit late. Where are we going?"

"I was thinking something really nice tonight. What do you say to dinner on Nina's Dandy?"

He could tell by the sound that she was holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, but despite the shuffling papers in the background, he knew that question got her full attention. "Hannibal, that sounds fantastic. I'd love it, but on one condition."

"And that is?"

"That you don't wear black for once. Okay?"

* * * * *

Henry pulled up to the curb and Hannibal parked his Volvo next to the Lexus in Ben Blair's driveway. The intensity of the late May sunshine gave the world a sharpness and brightness that seemed beyond reality, even through Hannibal's Oakley's. He paused on the blacktop for a moment to acclimate himself to his present environment. After all, there are town houses and there are town houses. This one was wider than most, and had a two car garage, but was still only three stories tall. Not the grandest he'd seen, but certainly comfortable. It was an end unit on an immaculate, well-manicured cul-de-sac that was designed to imitate a friendly suburban neighborhood, and largely succeeding. Flowers surrounded several of the mailboxes, and basketball hoops stood guard over many of the driveways, including this one. Then Henry called down the stairs from the front door.

"Mr. Jones. Please come in. I'll ask you to have a seat, and Mr. Blair will be with you in a moment."

A three-story townhouse with a formal butler. This spoke volumes to Hannibal.

Inside, everything he saw fit his initial judgment. Too many paintings covered the walls. Globes, sculptures and expensive toys were everywhere. The decor was chrome and wood with functional furniture. This was new money still learning how to behave at this level.

The butler deposited Hannibal in the large eat-in kitchen, handed him a cup of coffee, and disappeared. Hannibal had perhaps two minutes to enjoy the soft jazz piping through the room from some invisible source before a New England spiced voice called his name.

"Hannibal Jones. The troubleshooter. You got to love the way that sounds."

Hannibal stood to shake hands. "Well, not quite as nice as Ben Blair, boy billionaire."

Blair responded with an easy grin. That and the hair apparently plopped onto his head like a pile of straw did give him a boyish look. In fact, he was still on the good side of forty, which made him fairly young for a business success. In Dockers and a golf shirt, he seemed unusually comfortable in his own skin. At the same time he was a bundle of nervous energy, one of those people who have trouble sitting still for long. His trim physique implied that he burned off a good deal of that energy playing sports. He headed for the refrigerator while he spoke to Hannibal.

"I'm really glad you were able to get over here to see me, Mr. Jones. I'm faced with a puzzle that I don't have time to solve, you know? Although I do like puzzles. Consider this: some months have 30 days and some have 31. How many months have 28 days?"

Hannibal smiled. "Well, if you want to be technical about it, all of them."

Blair nodded toward Hannibal as if some suspicion had been confirmed. "Anyway, a friend of mine has been taken advantage of and I want to get the situation fixed. Juice?"

"Um, sure," Hannibal said. Blair placed two tall glasses of orange juice on the table and settled into a chair facing Hannibal. He dropped a cell phone on the table also, next to one that was already there. Hannibal wondered if they were designated business and pleasure, or maybe friend and foe.

"Here's the deal," Blair said, leaning in toward Hannibal. "A friend of mine was robbed of something very valuable to them by someone they trusted. This item could make a world of difference to my friend's life, you know? I need to find the thief and get the item returned. Do you like puzzles, Mr. Jones?"

"You called me about someone else's problem?"

"Well, I can afford your fee, Mr. Jones," Blair said. "My friend can't, you know?

But they saw you in the Zei Club last weekend and told me you were the man who could help them."

"I see. Is she particularly close to you?"

Blair had to be a canny businessman, but Hannibal figured he must be an awful poker player. "Did I say she?"

"No," Hannibal said. "You said they. If it was a man you'd have said 'he' easily enough. I just want to know how personal this is for you."

The lady involved is my cleaning lady, if you must know. No romantic connection or anything like that. But I like and respect her very much, and I want her to have what's hers, you know? And it is a puzzle."

"Is the missing item of great value financially?"

"I'm not really sure," Blair said, standing. "I know it was a gift from her father, and I know he wasn't wealthy. Besides, I don't want you to think this is a money thing to me. Piece of fruit?" Blair was poking in the refrigerator again. It was as orderly as a supermarket cooler. Hannibal noticed that the kitchen held no smell at all, not even of breakfast, and thought the cleaning woman must be quite special indeed.

"I know you're not all about the money," he said to Blair's back. "That Lexus in your driveway has to be six years old."

"You're pretty observant," Blair said, tossing an orange to Hannibal. "You must like puzzles too. I think you're the right guy for this treasure hunt."

"And just what is the treasure?" Hannibal asked, accepting the paper towel Blair offered him.

Blair regained his seat and set to peeling his orange over his own paper towel. "Don't really know. Ms. Cooper told me her father left her a treasure map to what he promised would be a pot of gold. I'm pretty sure he wasn't being literal, but what ever it is, the thief probably has it now. Find the thief, you find the treasure."

Blair was popping orange sections into his mouth while his eyes wandered out the window. Hannibal, slowly peeling his own orange, felt he was also slowly peeling away the layers of his host's mystery. He wondered if this guy suffered from attention deficit disorder or hyperactivity.

"Yes, well to do that I'll have to talk to the lady who's been robbed. I have to know if there's enough to go on for me to even take the case."

"Naturally," Blair said, standing. "Wait here. I'll have Franklin bring her in."

"She's here?" Hannibal asked, also getting to his feet. But Blair was already bouncing out of the room. Hannibal stood confused for just a moment. Then the butler entered from the living room. The woman following him stopped behind a chair.

"Miss Anita Cooper," the butler announced just before he withdrew.

-3-

As silences go, this one was pretty awkward. Anita Cooper was a small woman, certainly less then a hundred pounds and no more than an inch over five feet tall. She was blessed with shiny black skin and the small nose, full lips, high cheekbones and erect carriage Hannibal associated with pictures of ancient Egyptian princesses.

"Mister Blair said you wanted to talk to me?"

"I understood that you needed some help," Hannibal said, finally biting into his orange. It was so sweet he could almost forget the acid it carried.

"I've got some trouble, and your card says you're a troubleshooter," she said, looking up to make eye contact.

"And how do you come to have my card?"

Anita's feet shuffled, and her eyes went down again. "I saw you at the Zei Friday night. I picked your card up off that guy you knocked out."

Hannibal couldn't suppress his smile at that. This girl was more than she showed on the surface. She wore her kinky hair in a short but natural style. Her makeup was so subtle it could be overlooked. And her fingernails were perfectly done, which he knew could not be easy to maintain when one cleaned houses for a living. all of a sudden, he wanted to know her story.

"Why don't we sit down, and you can tell me what the trouble is."

Anita nodded, and smoothed the back of the simple sundress hanging from her shoulders as she sat. She seemed to be waiting for something. Hannibal guessed it might be instructions, or simply permission to speak.

"So, your father left you a treasure of some type?"

"That's what he said." Anita hesitated, as if wrestling with difficult memories. Hannibal rotated his hand as if to say, "Go on."

"Daddy was a research chemist over at Isermann -Börner up in Rockville," Anita said. "Worked there for years, before my mother left even. I stayed with Daddy through high school. He was so proud when I started at MIT. But, you don't want to hear all that."

"Actually, I do," Hannibal said, folding his hands in front of himself on the table. "Whatever you need to tell me that leads up to why I'm here."

Anita licked her lips, took a deep breath and pressed on. "I guess the start was the day Daddy called home from work. I was home for the summer after my freshman year. He was so excited, but all he really said was that he had had a really good day, and that we should celebrate. He sounded so happy. So, while he was on his way home I went out and got a bottle of champagne and a couple of lobsters and all the fixings."

Anita's eyes focused out the window and dampened. Hannibal was prepared to wait, but after a full minute of silence he began to worry that she might not be able to pull herself back if she was gone too long in the past. He asked, "Are you all right?" in a gentle tone.

Anita shook herself. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I could use some... would you like some more coffee?"

Without waiting for a reply, Anita picked up Hannibal's almost-empty cup. She crossed the wide kitchen and started fussing with a complex looking espresso machine. She kept her back to him while she worked.

"I'll make cappuccino," she said. "You'll love it. Anyway, um, see, Daddy was home when I got back. He didn't look happy any more. He said that there had been an accident. He hit a man who was on the side of the road up on 270 on his way in. He shouldn't have left the scene, you know, but he had to make it home first."

The machine made its screaming hissing noise loud enough that if Anita had sobbed, Hannibal might have missed it. She wiped her face once or twice while she worked with cups and heated the milk, but when she returned to the table her face was dry. She even mustered a small smile as she sat down, hands wrapped around her cup.

"Daddy and I had our special dinner anyway," she said. "As it turned out, it was our farewell dinner. Then he called the police and told them what happened. They came and took him away, but he promised me that he had left something in the house that would make us rich when he came back."

"He didn't say what? Or where?"

"He said it was safer if I didn't know," she replied after a sip from her cup. "The long and the short of it was, he was tried and convicted. Not of murder, but the other thing, you know..."

"Manslaughter," Hannibal filled in. "Probably involuntary under the circumstances. And this is very good. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said, seeming to draw energy from the small compliment. "Anyway, Daddy had never been in trouble before. So he was supposed to do three to five years, right down there in Greenville."

"Cold Springs Correctional," Hannibal said. "Two and a half, three hours south of here. But not a bad place, as such places go. Minimum security."

"They figured if he behaved he'd be out in two years. But in the meantime, there was no money. I left school and got a job with a house cleaning company, but I knew it wouldn't be that long."

The espresso was hot and strong and flavored with just enough cinnamon. Hannibal guessed it was brewed from medium roast Arabica beans. He let it play across his tongue as he listened. "And is your dad still away?"

"Daddy," Anita clenched her eyes together for just a moment. "Daddy died in prison last year. They said it was a heart attack. Sudden. Unexpected."

In that instant, Hannibal's coffee became as bitter as ashes. No, he realized, it was this young woman's life that had turned to ashes in a matter of months.

"I'm so sorry. What did you do? Was there insurance?"

"He had it at work," Anita said, "but it lapsed while he was away. He had left some savings, but with keeping the house going and the, you know."

Hannibal nodded. "The final arrangements. I understand. So you kept working. And I assume you looked for the gift that your father left behind."

"I never found anything that looked valuable in the house," Anita replied. Her fists were clenched tight as she spoke. "Of course, I didn't know what I was looking for. Jewelry? Stocks? An account number? No idea. Anyway, after enough time passed I began to even wonder if there was a hidden treasure. Maybe he just told me that to keep my courage up while he was in prison. But I kept on with life, you know, cleaning and saving up to get back to college. And then Rod came."

"Rod is the boyfriend?" Hannibal asked.

Anita's lips pressed tightly together. "Could you please take off your glasses, Mr. Jones?"

Hannibal slid his Oakley's off his face. Anita stared for only a moment. Maybe it didn't seem as odd to her as it had to some others.

"Are they blue?"

"Sometimes," Hannibal said. "Technically I guess you'd say hazel."

"Men don't have hazel eyes. For sure Black men don't. You are unusual."

"I don't mean to be," Hannibal said. "Now, Rod? The boyfriend?"

Anita locked eyes with Hannibal as if preparing for some reaction. "Rod was my lover, Mr. Jones. He showed up at the house about a month after daddy passed. He said he had known my father in prison, and daddy would have wanted him to take care of me. He had no place to go. I was lonely. So, I let him stay with me."

Hannibal knew she was steeled against disapproval, but it was not his place to judge her. For him, these were just facts in a case. Every case eventually grew out of people doing wrong and if he tried to sort the good people from the bad he'd never have a client. He sipped his coffee. It had grown cold, but bringing the cup to his lips gave his hands something to do.

"I take it your father told you about this fellow?"

"He had mentioned him," Anita said. "And he showed up at the right time. None of my father's other friends from work or anywhere ever bothered to check on me after the funeral. All my friends were up at school. I was alone, starting to drift, wandering aimlessly. Do you understand that, Mr. Jones? I needed someone to guide me, to help me get through it all. Rod was a strong man, and he just captivated me."

Hannibal hated him already. Of course, Hannibal had a prejudice against guys named Rod. Or Dick. Or Peter for that matter. What were they trying to prove? "So you were comfortable with this guy?"

"I fell in love with him, Mr. Jones," Anita said, fixing him with a defiant stare. "I needed him, and I felt like he needed me. And he asked about Daddy all the time. He spent a lot of time in Daddy's study, almost as if he was trying to make it his own."

"No doubt," Hannibal said. "And at what point did he become uncomfortable there?" Anita looked down. Hannibal's words had been dry. He knew all of this must be embarrassing to share with a stranger.

"It came as a total surprise, Mr. Jones. Six months ago, I came home from work and he was gone. And Daddy's study was a mess. Books tossed here and there, papers just strewn about. I realized while I was cleaning up that he must have been searching for something. Daddy's notebooks were very orderly and organized and I made sure they were all in place before I was done. At first I thought nothing was missing. Then I noticed that a whole box of spare computer discs was gone. I had never thought that Daddy's hidden treasure might be information, Mr. Jones. I think Rod took something out of the computer."

Hannibal had gotten there ahead of her, but this wasn't a real answer. Were they talking about directions to hidden money, the account number of a secret bank account, or a stock brokerage account? It could just as easily be information about a coworker to be used for blackmail. The possibilities were endless, and everything he thought of was intangible. Lost diamonds could be recovered, but stolen information was probably worthless after being used by the thief.

"Right. So he disappeared six months ago, and you haven't seen him since."

"Oh, no," Anita said, leaning forward with her palms on the table. "I saw him last week."

Hannibal also leaned forward, startled the way we so often are when the ending of a story isn't what we expect. "Where?"

Anita's hands locked in an odd way, palms facing with the fingers of one hand curled to hook into the fingers of the other. "I had just finished cleaning Mrs. LaPage's house. I was getting into my car when he pulled up in front of hers. God, it made my heart hurt to see him. I was so flustered I almost caused an accident pulling away. My mind was just spinning. I didn't know what to do. That's why Tonya dragged me out to the club that night. And that's when I saw you."

"Timing is everything," Hannibal said with a smile.

"I think maybe it was fate," Anita said with total seriousness. "You were sent to help me."

Hannibal squirmed under the weight of such a divine responsibility. "I'm not sure I have the solution to this particular problem, Miss Cooper. Why don't you sit tight for a minute and I'll go talk to Mr. Blair again, to see what we might be able to work out."

Anita looked frightened when Hannibal stood. Frightened of being alone, he wondered? In any case, she sat obediently while he wandered into the living room. Hannibal pushed his sunglasses back into place before he stepped into the living room. He stopped at the end of a plush sofa, on which Blair sat watching the tape of a baseball game on his sixty-one inch plasma television screen. The Red Sox were pitching to the Yankees. Blair's feet tapped, and he twitched to the point that he almost vibrated in his seat. Was he a bundle of nervous energy, or did his brain just run at such a frenetic pace that it fired out energy his body had to bleed off. When he looked up, it was as if he was coming out of a trance.

"So, taking the case?"

"Let's get through the basics first," Hannibal said. "Can we talk for a minute?"

Blair didn't hesitate to mute the game and turn his attention to Hannibal. "How can I help?"

"From what Miss Cooper told me, this is too simple. Have you spoken to this Rod? Made him an offer for whatever it is he took?"

Blair shook his head. "I had my people call Marquita LaPage, you know? He's left town again."

Hannibal watched Jeeter swing hard at a pitch that was low and inside. "How far did the police get?"

"Police?" Blair made a noise of contempt. "This isn't a case for the police, if only for personal reasons. I don't want the man arrested, I just want you to find him and get back whatever he took from Anita's house. Besides, police probably wouldn't even believe a crime had been committed, right? I mean, no valuables gone, at least nothing the victim can describe, and no forced entry. No crime from their point of view. This is a case for you, my friend. You know, we're in the same line of work you and I. What do you know about data mining?"

"Not much," Hannibal said. "I guess it's all about extracting the information somebody needs from large databases."

Blair lit up like a school kid. "That's it exactly. That's how I made my fortune, you know, and I think it's what you do too. We're both in the information business, Mr. Jones. The only real difference is that my databases are in computers, and yours are usually in people's heads. That's the only way to find a person who doesn't want to be found in this world. We all leave a trail, after all, it's just lost among all the other material. It's all out there, you just have to dig up the right bits of data."

"Yes, well, buried treasure that might be missing isn't usually the kind of thing I do," Hannibal said. "Ms. Cooper doesn't appear to really be in any kind of trouble. And I did have a little vacation planned. Not to mention, there doesn't seem to be much to go on."

"Please, just do me one favor," Blair said. He picked up a thin envelope from his glass topped end table and handed it to Hannibal. "This is a check for one day's work and a retainer for a week of your time. Please just go to Anita's place and look around a bit. Get your feet wet with the case. If you decide it's not for you, just tear up the second check and move on. I promise I won't bug you again. Okay?"

Hannibal thought that little kid grin must work for Blair nine times out of ten, and he couldn't resist returning it. "Okay, you've got a deal. Let me mull this one over, and I'll let you know in the morning if I'll take the case or not."

Blair stood and extended his hand. "I had you checked out pretty thoroughly, Mr. Jones. If Anita told you her whole story I know you'll pursue this."

* * * * *

Anita Cooper insisted on making lunch for them after Hannibal drove her the five blocks to her home. Her townhouse was a bit more modest than Blair's but the much greater difference showed in the contents. Expensive furniture doesn't really look so special until you have something to compare it with. Hannibal thought her father had bought a home just a little beyond his reach. To compensate, he had ordered the cheapest carpet, the least expensive blinds and the most basic kitchen appliances. They had furnished it along the same lines.

Hannibal toured the house while Anita did kitchen things. Being a bachelor, he was amused at how neat she kept the place relative to his own apartment. Beyond that, nothing upstairs seemed remarkable to him except perhaps the after-shave lotion in Anita's medicine cabinet. The second bedroom was preserved as if someone lived there, but dust motes floated in the strong shaft of sunlight beaming in through the window. He suspected the room was merely a shrine to her lost father.

On the main level he walked into the odor of tuna fish oil and mayonnaise as he passed Anita. She seemed focused very hard on making the world's best tuna salad sandwiches and soup from a can. The living room held the usual items, although her nineteen-inch television looked puny after standing in front of Blair's home theater screen.

Another flight of stairs led Hannibal to a family room, and finally, a small office. This room showed signs of recent use. Papers were neatly arrayed on the desk. Perhaps Anita used the computer every day to send e-mails and such. Bookshelves lined the room, and one set of them held a row of numbered green notebooks. That didn't mean much to Hannibal until he noticed the floppy discs.

A transparent case on Hannibal's desk holds two rows of poorly labeled discs. Three similar cases stood on Anita's desk. Perhaps a total of one hundred eighty discs, all grouped by color and separated by dividers. The woman was absolutely anal-retentive. Or maybe her father had been. Looking more closely, he could see that the discs were labeled and numbered with great care. Well, she did say her father was a researcher. Maybe he worked at home.

Again, Hannibal's attention returned to the green hardcover notebooks. Each was numbered in sequence with a label pasted to the spine. He pulled down the first one and opened it. The pages were lined but much of the content was drawings and diagrams and writings that he recognized as chemical symbols. Each triangle or pentagram with letters at the corners represented a chemical compound but like the accompanying paragraphs it was all gibberish to him. Curious, Hannibal reached for the last volume, number thirty-eight. It was blank. As were thirty-seven and thirty-six. She must have prepared them in advance. But number thirty-four was full to the last page. The book in-between was absent.

"It's ready," Anita called.

Hannibal bounded up the stairs to find Anita facing him with her back to the stove, pointing toward the table at the front of the house where a glass of lemonade already stood. He smiled a thank-you and moved to a chair while stuffing his glasses and gloves into inside jacket pockets. Green plants lining the windowsill beside him were a silent testament to one more thing he could not do, keep plants alive in his home.

Anita served lunch, in a truer sense than Hannibal was accustomed to. She carried his soup bowl on its plate to the table, and then brought another plate with two sandwiches. The sandwiches were cut in half diagonally and turned so the crusts touched and the filling side faced out. She carried the plates with both hands, and placed them on the table with her face down, almost as if she were bowing to him. Then she returned to the stove, and lifted her own sandwich from its plate, as if she intended to eat standing at the counter by the sink. For Hannibal, that was too much.

"Please, come join me," he said, keeping his tone light. "We need to talk a bit while we eat, so I can get some facts straight."

Anita quickly carried her plate to the table and sat at the other end. In the eerie quiet she chewed slowly, her eyes mostly focused down on her food. Hannibal tasted his own sandwich, leaned back and smiled. It was on rye bread with onions and celery and maybe a hint of mustard as well.

"Hey, that's really good," he said.

When she smiled back at him her nose wrinkled adorably and her shoulders rose a bit. "Thank you," she said, barely loud enough to be heard.

"I'm impressed at how well you keep the house," Hannibal said, sipping his lemonade. "And I noticed everything is very organized. Did your father keep it this way?"

"Daddy was never as organized as he could have been. I actually kept his things straight for him. It was good to have someone to take care of. We took care of each other."

Hannibal nodded, and sipped his chicken soup. "So, you organized all his work notes and such?"

"Oh yes. It was one way I helped Daddy out."

"So, you couldn't have missed the fact that his most recent notebook is gone," Hannibal said. "Didn't it occur to you that whatever your father meant for you to have might be hidden in them?"

Anita looked down again. "It was just his notes. What could be so valuable in one of those books?"

What indeed? Hannibal could think of a dozen possibilities. Incriminating photographs could lie between the pages. Dirt on a company executive could be written between the formulas, or even trade secrets Anita's father could have sold to another firm. These were the kinds of intangible items that people often paid a great deal of money for. They were also the kinds that lose value quickly once too many people are aware of them. The kind of treasure that is all too often unrecoverable. You can't repossess a person's knowledge.

"Well, one way or another, it sounds as if you won't get whatever it is back unless I can make some sort of settlement with Rod. That means I won't be able to help you unless I can find him, and it sounds as if this guy knows how to keep a low profile. He could be several states away by now."

Anita was looking at the floor again, her fingers laced together in front of her, biting her lower lip. Sitting behind her half eaten sandwich, she looked even smaller than she really was. "Please Mr. Jones. Please try. Whatever my father left me, it's my only legacy from him."

Hannibal pushed his food aside. "I don't even know if I can help you. I need more to go on. So tell me a little about this Rod fellow. Where did he work? What did he do?"

"Rod was very handy," Anita said. "He helped a lot around the house, and sometimes he did odd jobs for neighbors and such."

"I see." Hannibal was starting to form a picture of their relationship, and it was not a pretty one. "He stayed here?"

"He had no place to go."

"Did he give you money?" Hannibal asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

Anita, to her credit, stuck to the truth. "Once in a while he bought groceries and such. But he was real good at fixing things around here. And he helped me, you know, get focused. He helped me with having a purpose in life."

Her designated purpose appeared to be to take care of this man who appeared out of nowhere to take advantage of her and, most likely, to steal the only thing of value left to her. Hannibal was starting to really dislike this guy. "What's his full name, and what does he look like."

Anita squared her shoulders as if reporting to a drill sergeant. "Roderick Mantooth is his full name. He's a little shorter than you but bigger, broader. His hair is black, like his eyes, and he's..." Here she looked out the window, avoiding Hannibal's gaze. "He's white."

That fact seemed a lot more significant to Anita than it was to Hannibal.

"Rod Mantooth? Could that be his real name? Oh, well. You said you saw him at another woman's house. Was he driving?"

"Oh yes, Rod was driving."

Good. "Did you get the license plates?"

"No. I'm sorry, the car was too far away."

Her shyness, bordering on subservience, was beginning to annoy him. "Well, that would have made it a lot easier to find the guy. Do you think you'd recognize the car again?"

"Oh, of course." Anita's smile seemed almost to reflect pride. "You couldn't miss it with those big fins on the back. It's a specially customized car, fire engine red with white interior. Rod calls it a Corvorado."

"A what?"

"The front end is from a 1967 Chevrolet Corvette. From the doors back, it's a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado. You couldn't miss that."

-4-

Hannibal was afraid he might miss the boat.

The entrance gate to the pier was on the water's edge to Hannibal's left as he faced the Potomac River, playing with the ring box in his left front pocket. The Nina's Dandy floated there, her windows reflecting the last few rays of the orange sun at Hannibal's back. He squinted for a while, and then turned away from that reflection, his eyes not shielded by sunglasses for a change. Across the river, tall oaks and maples blazed golden in that reddened glow, and waves like silver sequins lapped at the shore. Everything was dressed up for the occasion.

Unlike his idyllic backdrop, Hannibal felt unnatural in his costume. His double-breasted Italian suit was pure silk, in a color he wasn't sure he could name. Creme, perhaps, or off tan with sort of a gold tone. Anyway, he knew Cindy liked it. His navy blue shirt came with a matching pocket square, so he wore both. He did like the tie, kind of a silvery charcoal with a subtle darker diagonal stripe.

Hannibal flashed back an hour or so, to the moments before he left home. He was standing erect, trying to hold still while Sarge worked to tie Hannibal's tie in an impressive Windsor knot, so much classier than the usual four-in-hand Hannibal whipped into his work ties every day. Sarge appeared to be enjoying Hannibal's plight, perhaps sharing the experience in some vicarious way. Hannibal knew Sarge's life had become a lonely one, for no reason Hannibal could identify. Why were so many good people alone? In any case, Hannibal took joy in his own amazing luck in having a wonderful woman after too many years of short lived relationships followed by long spaces of alone time. He was determined to make this one stick.

Several guests had already boarded the Nina's Dandy, the floating restaurant he had chosen for the special moment. Hannibal wondered if Cindy would arrive in time for them to eat. Then again, he wondered if he would be able to eat. The acid leaping inside his stomach seemed to be voting no.

Only a few blocks separated Cindy's townhouse from the pier in Old Town, Alexandria, but Hannibal was not surprised to see her pull up in a taxi. He suspected that this was not about inconveniencing him to pick her up, or even about not wanting to walk any farther than necessary in heels nearly three inches high, but really about making an entrance. And as far as he was concerned, it was well worth it.

Cindy Santiago's black evening outfit didn't make her look tall and trim, that's just the way her body was made. Her carefully trimmed deep brown hair, usually worn loose, was swept back this evening, just skimming her shoulders. Her face glowed the way children do in Christmas photographs, and her makeup was so perfect you had to look close to know it was there. High cheekbones and tawny skin betrayed her Latin heritage. Dark brown eyes were a little too big, and her smile a little too broad, but to Hannibal they fit together perfectly. Her black silk blouse bore an elegant drape that only served to showcase her abundant décolletage. It flowed down into black velvet pants that accented her high, narrow waist. Her silver chain belt was the perfect accent, and her heels were high enough to make the most of her legs.

"Well, say something, man," Cindy said.

"What could I say that wouldn't get me arrested? You're a vision."

Cindy stepped forward to drop a quick kiss on his lips. "Yeah, well I'm a hungry vision and if we don't get moving dinner's going to float away."

* * * * *

Aside from a gentle rocking, being seating at a table on Nina's Dandy differed little from taking a seat in any upscale restaurant. A band of glass panels surrounded the vessel so that every seat offered an unobstructed view of the river and its thickly wooded coastline. Hannibal watched the oaks and maples slide past, with the occasional dogwood flashing its white or pink flowers that he thought outshone the more famous cherry blossoms. He bit into a piece of sharp, port-wine seasoned cheddar on an unfamiliar cracker and wondered why Cindy chose this particular evening to be so much more verbal than usual.

"Oh, Hannibal this is perfect," she said as the fresh fruit arrived. "I don't know how you always know what I'll want. This is a perfect celebration, maybe just a smidge early, for the Melville's account."

At least she was so excited about work right now that she didn't seem to notice Hannibal's nervousness. "Is that the business with the IPO?"

Cindy giggled at Hannibal's ignorance. It seemed to him that she often did. "DPO, silly. IPO's are a very different kind of offering. Say, isn't that The Awakening? I love that piece."

The sculpture Cindy referred to was of a silver-skinned bearded giant, half-buried in the Maryland shoreline. One arm reached skyward while the other had barely broken through the ground. His open mouth was large enough for a small child to climb into. He seems to be struggling for freedom as Nina's Dandy floats past, much as Hannibal was struggling with words at that moment.

"He seems frozen in time," Hannibal said. "And no man wants to be held static in time, you know. Time passes and life changes are called for, don't you think? It's amazing how much can happen in a few short months."

"You are so right," Cindy said, pushing plates and glasses to make room for the spinach salad. "Melville's has already raised nearly nine million dollars, and their stock is rising instead of falling. This is a good thing, since they gave me a bunch of stock options at the start of this enterprise."

A shadow passed over the table as the majestic vessel floated beneath the Fourteenth Street Bridge. Hannibal shoved a forkful of green into his mouth and wondered why anyone would think to put mandarin oranges into a green salad. The sweet citrus taste didn't seem to fit.

"Is that amount unusual for an IPO," he asked. "I mean a DPO. What the hell's the difference, anyway?"

"Well, a direct public offering is just what the name says. The company can sell stock directly to the public, without a lot of the hateful registration and reporting requirements that IPOs go through. DPOs range in offerings from up to a million, all the way up to twenty five million, depending on the type of offering made. They all have different requirements and restrictions. This particular group is going for twenty-five million dollars, and there's a bonus if we hit the total. There are only a few days left but I think it could happen."

"They must have made quite a commitment to this business," Hannibal said. Then he moistened his dry mouth with a little wine before speaking again. "Sometimes, commitment is a difficult thing. There can be risks, but when you really want something, you have to take action." His hand eased toward his left trouser pocket.

"That's the beauty of this approach for them," Cindy said, moving her hands in a very animated fashion, her face glowing with the excitement Hannibal had seen on the faces of hunters getting close to a deer. "DPOs are designed so small businesses can raise capital in a relatively easy and low cost way. Venture capital and private investors aren't always accessible to them. Then they face the scary task of trying to raise debt financing. DPOs let them raise equity financing instead, and at the same time they give investors a chance to get in early. Hey, here come our entrees. Hannibal, you are so sweet to think of this."

The soft, jazz flavored background music seemed to swell as Hannibal's prime rib arrived. Cindy had chosen the shrimp stuffed with breaded crab. He loved the way her silver necklace glinted in the fading sunlight as she bent to her food with obvious delight. Watching her perfect white teeth tear at the jumbo shrimp, he reflected again on the phenomenon of a woman who could make eating a meal an act of sensuous abandon.

Conversation stilled as they dined, and words seemed unnecessary toward the end of the meal. At some unspoken signal they reached for each other and held hands while they watched evening turn into night around them. They enjoyed the show as Downtown Washington lit up. Their view of the Lincoln Memorial was stunning, but not as moving as the perfect picture that shaped up in front of them as the Washington Monument and the lighted Capitol Dome slid into position to present a postcard come to life. The reflecting pool, stretched out between them and the monuments, appeared to have been placed there in anticipation that these two lovers would some day sit in this exact spot in the middle of the Potomac to see it.

The Kennedy Center and the oddly curved Watergate Hotel complex moved past before the canned music was replaced by live tinkling from the piano at the center of the deck and the sharp but sweet aroma of cinnamon-heavy apple pie drew Hannibal's senses back into the ship.

"I hope that pie is as good as this cheesecake," Cindy said. Her dark eyes told him that she had drunk just enough wine with dinner to loosen her up a notch. Maybe he would try one more time. He emptied his glass, and took Cindy's other hand.

"Cindy, I talked to a girl today who wants my help with a problem, but I think she found it difficult to talk to me. You know, sometimes it's hard for people to discuss what's really important with someone face to face. You know what I mean?"

"Oh, yeah baby, it's the same in my business," she said. "That's what makes the Internet so great. Like for this case I'm working right now. See, unlike an IPO certain DPOs let companies actively advertise and promote the sale of their stock. The SEC even allows the electronic transfer of the company's prospectus to an investor. That way, the company execs don't have to be salesmen and talk to people, you know? Hey, name that tune!"

"What?" Hannibal had to think a minute. She had switched gears twice, and landed on a very old jazz tune coming from the piano.

"Isn't that Deep Purple?"

"Yeah, that's it. I want to dance. Don't you want to dance?" They rose together without their hands parting. As they arrived at their spot a few feet from the other two dancing couples, Cindy asked, "So what about that case? Are you going to take it?"

Hannibal clamped his eyes shut and stifled a sigh, accepting that this evening would simply not go in the direction he expected it to. Their night had become her night, and he would simply have to devise another opportunity to pop the question.

"Well, it looks like I'll have time for a case in the next few days. I guess I'll take it after all."

-5-

THURSDAY

For Hannibal it was the start of a typical workday, if there was such a thing. There was a limit to the kinds of trouble people got into, so there were only so many ways for Hannibal to earn his living. Some days, he provided physical protection for someone. Like his last case, that was mostly waiting for something to happen. Some days he delivered messages his client could not deliver themselves, usually backing the message up with violence. That kind of trouble most often ended quickly. Hannibal's time in the secret service had prepared him well for those assignments.

The rest of his workdays were what he called legwork days. That meant doing the drudgework he hated, pursuing leads to find something or someone. His days with the New York police department had prepared him for those days.

After a good long run to clear his head and a frozen waffle breakfast, he brewed a fresh pot of coffee and worked the telephone for a couple of hours. He didn't tell Anita, but she had actually given him a pretty good lead on Rod. The car he drove was a very special customization. Whoever did that work would remember it. And people who do that kind of thing know each other. One call to an auto customizer led to another, on a telephone trail that seemed to move farther and farther west, until he got the comment he was waiting for.

"Mister, only one man on the east coast could have pulled off a chop job like that one."

Hannibal stepped out of his building just before eleven o'clock, pushing his sunglasses into place. A shout from up the block got his attention as he reached for his car door handle. Monte Washington was marching toward him. As always, Hannibal stifled his reaction to middle school fashion. Hannibal was sure Monte's jeans were below his narrow butt, and he wondered what kept them from falling off.

"Dude! I been wanting to talk to you," Monte said. His hair was in tight cornrow braids these days, and his chocolate complexion darkened by the summer sun. "You gotta tell me what it was like, hanging with Huge Wilson. Did you meet Missy and Timberland? And I know he got all the fly honeys, but did he share?"

"I was working, Monte. I wasn't focused on the honeys," Hannibal said. Was Timberland a person? Hannibal thought it was a brand of boots. "And I've been wanting to talk to you too, after the last time I spoke with your grandmother." Monte was the first person in the neighborhood to speak to Hannibal when he first arrived. Much of his drive to keep drug dealers out of the area stemmed from his concern for this one young man and the grandmother who was raising him. For Hannibal, Monte symbolized the promise of the future.

"What's Grandma been telling you now?" Monte asked, sliding his portable CD player's headphones on.

"She told me about your final report card this year," Hannibal said. "I'm not happy. We had a deal."

"It wasn't all that bad, bro."

"You can do better," Hannibal said. "And I wonder if you've been reading this summer like you said you would."

"You want me to waste my time with my head in a book?" Monte asked with a grin. "Maybe we need to hook up a new deal."

Hannibal turned to lean back against his car. He had the feeling he had stepped into a well concealed bear trap. "What do you have in mind, you little hustler?"

"I know you didn't realize what a great opportunity you just passed up," Monte said, padding around in what Hannibal thought were Timberlands. "But since you made the connection, well, you could introduce me to Huge."

"I could." Hannibal looked around his block, smelling the eternal heat of the city and feeling the summer slipping away like Monte's chances at success. Did he realize that he was in a race, and that some of his peers were already running? "But that's a tall order. I think a meeting like that, under positive circumstances, would be worth, let's say a book every two weeks, through the summer, and maybe the same deal after school starts."

"What?" Monte back-pedaled. "You don't want me to have no life at all?"

"Well, if it's not worth it to you," Hannibal turned and pulled the handle of his car door.

"Okay, okay, but for that deal, I got to have five minutes alone with the brother, so I can get him to listen to some of my rhyming," Monte said. "I could be his next big thing, you know?"

"Sure, Monte. Now listen, I got work to do. And you better get to the library and find something good because I'll hook you up with Huge before the end of next week."

* * * * *

Before his conversation with Monte faded from his mind, Hannibal was cruising down I-295, watching for the exit to the Beltway that would point him toward Maryland. The nearest mechanic who would admit to being able to perform the kind of automotive surgery needed to create Rod's car lived across the Potomac in the Southern Maryland county of St. Mary's. It was the same man who had been identified by his peers during Hannibal's telephone investigation.

Hannibal still marveled at how abruptly his urban environment faded to a rural setting. The city feeling dropped away within twenty minutes of driving, when he turned onto Maryland's Route 5 and headed south toward Mechanicsville. He spent a lot of time alone with the Tornado, and he knew just where on the RPM scale she would settle into a smooth and steady cruise. This was the speed at which his Volvo was happiest, and once he hit it he liked to settle back and enjoy the scenery moving past him. At these times he enjoyed his favorite guilty pleasure, the classic rock music that always made him feel so good. None of his friends could really appreciate the Lynrd Skynrd album thumping in his CD player right then, but he was sure the people who lived on either side of the road he was cruising down would love it.

His head was still bobbing when he turned off the highway, and again onto an even smaller road. He slowed to a crawl to drive over the ruts and potholes, eventually moving onto a road barely wide enough to accommodate two cars passing. Willows lined the road, leaning far enough over to occasionally brush the Tornado's white roof. Just as he was beginning to doubt the accuracy of his directions, Hannibal saw four single-story buildings. One looked as if it might hold an office, while the others were clearly garages and work areas.

The pit bull snarling at him at the end of a short chain marked this as rural white territory. Sarge called these people SMIBs, an unflattering acronym for Southern Maryland In-Breds. Of course, Hannibal had been in Black-owned junkyards with a very similar look except that for some reason, the brothers always had rottweillers or Doberman pinschers chained to their gates.

Hannibal sat for a moment, parked in front of a row of vintage cars, and partial cars. He allowed himself those few seconds to decide on the best approach to get the information he needed. Despite the barking dog, no one came outside to meet him, so in his own time he opened his door and stepped out. The car's air-conditioned atmosphere puffed out with him and evaporated, allowing the heat of the day to wrap around him like a soft blanket. The humidity fogged his Oakley's for a second. The smell of oil or transmission fluid was tainted with the odor that rises when someone who chews tobacco has spit in the same place too many times. He looked down to see dust rise from the hard packed dirt surface and settle on his previously glistening shoes. On an impulse, he pulled his gloves off, dropped them on the seat, shut the door and headed inside.

Ten steps later Hannibal opened the door of the first cinder block building. He knew right away why no one had stepped out. A loud compressor was keeping that room ice cold. He saw everything he expected to see there: a parts manual open on a wooden counter, vinyl chairs on the customer side, a Coke machine in the corner, barely clad models on the calendar on the opposite wall, and a hard-skinned, smiling white man standing behind the counter.

"Morning," the man said. "What can I do you for today? You looking for a car, or you want some work done on that 850 GLT outside?"

Hannibal held his hand out for a shake, and got it. "I'm Hannibal Jones, and I'm betting you're Clarence Nash." Nash was in his early fifties, with silver hair and a beard that had simply grown as far as it wanted to and stopped. He wore overalls, but his hands were clean and his shake was firm. Hannibal's research told him that this man was a mechanic, an artist and a salesman. He figured he could probably get away with a direct approach with the man, if he sprinkled it with a bit of flattery.

Nash took Hannibal in with one broad glance, and there seemed to be a great deal of activity going on behind his face. "I'm Nash, but folks here about generally call me Van. And I'm thinking maybe you ain't here about no car. Hardly anybody comes here in a suit, and you ain't no Marylander anyhow. You ain't with the IRS, is you?"

"No kind of law, although I do have some experience in that area," Hannibal said. "I'm private now, just trying to help a client find an old friend. I don't have too many leads, but I think this guy was a customer of yours."

Nash stared idly out the window toward the sound of a power sander being used in one of the garages out back. "Well, son, I've had a lot of customers in the last couple of years, and I don't keep real good records here."

Hannibal leaned an elbow on the counter while he slid his hand into his pocket. "I understand sir. This is rather an odd request. But you must keep some sort of records and I have been authorized to pay you for your time checking them. Of course if my information is right, you'll remember this fellow. I'm told you're the only man alive who could have built his car. Corvette in front, Cadillac in back. Sound familiar?"

While he talked, Hannibal watched Nash's face move from suspicion to irritation to offense and finally to what looked like disgust. For a moment he feared he had miscalculated the best way to approach this man.

"Oh, that asshole," Nash said, his eyes rolling skyward. "Well, if your client really is a friend of his, you ought to get a better class of client. But I'm betting the real reason you're trying to find him is because he welshed on a bet or screwed your client's old lady. Right?"

"Well, something like that," Hannibal said. "He stole something from a lady and I'm trying to recover it."

"Yeah, that figures," Nash said, turning to rummage through a stack of thick binders. "Always talked about women like they was trash. I'll never forget that guy. One of them pretty-boy weightlifters with squinty little eyes and hands like a gorilla's paws. And the job, Jesus what a job."

"You mean the car?"

Nash returned to the counter and slammed a big binder down on it to accent his words. "Damn straight. You know how the sixty-eight 'Vette had that crease on the side of the front quarter panel and the doors?"

"I have to admit I don't know much about old cars."

"Well, they had a crease along them, horizontally, see?" Nash talked while he flipped through blue, perforated pages. "Ran down the side. So when I cut the body in half..."

"You cut the car in half?"

"Such a beauty too," Nash said, shaking his head. "But, yeah, he only wanted the front part, before the doors. Just back to the windshield. Then I had to reform the fiberglass on the sides, to make it match up when I mounted it on the El Dorado. That meant cutting the front off that beautiful nineteen fifty-nine Caddy. It's what he wanted, and he paid big money for it too, but believe me, driving that thing must be a bitch."

"My client said he called it a Corvorado," Hannibal said. "Why would a guy want to do that?"

"Why?" Nash looked up, surprised. "Boy, you're talking about driving the biggest, flashiest thing on the road. The 'Vette's all nose, and that El Dorado was all ass, so you end up with this long, racy, high powered bitch that can haul ass while it's hauling you and a half dozen of your best friends. And with the fiberglass nose making her tail heavy, I bet you she's a hell of a street racer. And he could take care of her."

"Meaning?"

Nash looked up again, surprised. "Meaning that he knew the machine. Think he must have been quite a shade tree mechanic, something you city boys wouldn't know nothing about. Hell of a driver too. I rode with him on her shakedown drive. Ah, here he is. Rod Mantooth."

"You sound a little like you admired him," Hannibal said, staring down at the receipt in Nash's book.

"No sir, he was a genuine son of a bitch," Nash said, looking as if he was about to spit. "Had a hateful word for anybody you could name, and thought he was God's gift to the world. Never seen a man swagger like that, except on TV on the wrestling shows. And the way he talked about the ladies. Damn."

Hannibal smiled a bit. It was getting easier and easier to hate this Mantooth guy. "Sounds like I want to watch my back when I find him. But I guess he made an impression on you. Can you give me a description?"

Nash's lower lip pushed forward, and his eyes went up and to his left as he searched his brain. "Five-ten, maybe, but he had to be pushing two hundred pounds and solid as an old oak. Black hair, and black eyes that were, I don't know, kind of cold, you know? Kind of dark skin, too. Not like you, I mean like spics or Italians get. Real hairy arms too. And kind of a craggy face, although I bet women go for him."

Hannibal assembled a picture in his mind, much as a police sketch artist might. He would consult it later if he thought he had the man in his sights. "I'm picturing loud, short sleeve shirts, jeans and cowboy boots."

Nash snapped back. "How'd you know that? Well, it's just the kind of stuff he always had on. He's sure not from around here. He might have been a wannabe surfer dude but from that accent I'd bet he's an Alabama boy. You know, the kind that barely get through fifth grade and learn about loving from their sister."

Hannibal nodded that he got the idea, all the while marveling at the way some rednecks can put other rednecks down. At least he had Nash on his side. He pointed at the receipt again. "So, do you have a copy of his check? I might be able to trace him through his bank."

"Don't really know much about this business, do you?" Nash asked, scratching himself in a way that made Hannibal uncomfortable. "Don't see many checks in this business. But most of my customers don't pay in crisp, brand new hundred dollar bills."

Hannibal's face revealed nothing, but that news hit him like an unexpected punch. Lots of money probably meant that Mantooth had already sold whatever information he found at Anita's home. But maybe, if Hannibal found him soon enough, he could at least recoup some of the money he had received for it.

"Okay, you clearly didn't trust this guy. I'm betting you made him give you an address."

Nash grinned, flashing tobacco-stained teeth. "Sure did. He was living good, too. Had him a room at the Hilton in Washington. He didn't belong in no decent hotel but, I guess in one way them hotel boys is just like me. They take care of you as long as your money's green. Maybe he's even still there. I sure hope you catch up with that son of a bitch. And I hope when you do, you kick his ass."

* * * * *

The second he had the Volvo started, Hannibal cranked the air conditioning up to maximum. Pulling out of Nash's yard his uppermost thought was how much dust he had stirred up and how much of it had settled onto The Tornado's hood. He would have to run through a car wash before the day was out.

By the time he reached Route 5 his mind had returned to his case. He turned the fan down to its lowest setting and pushed buttons on his car phone. The robotic voice of an operator informed him that there were ten Hilton Hotels in the Capital area, but he was only interested in the four technically in Washington. With the Maryland countryside flowing past in an endless wave of green, he called the first hotel.

Hannibal's years as a policeman in New York had taught him how to act like a cop, but one of the less obvious things he had learned in the Secret Service was how to sound like a cop. There is a tone, a pace, an approach to asking questions that people recognize as official. Using the right amount of authority, Hannibal was able to get three hotels to confirm that they had not had a guest named Rod, Roderick or Roger Mantooth in the appropriate timeframe. The fourth Hilton explained that they could not divulge that kind of information over the telephone. Hannibal thanked them and drove on, now knowing where Rod had stayed.

The final phone call ended just as Hannibal was merging onto the Beltway, turning his CD player back up, and noticing the gray Ford in his rearview mirror. Traffic on I-495 was light at this time of the morning, but moving quickly. He wouldn't be on that road five minutes at this pace, so he stayed in the right lane. ZZ Top's raucous white-boy blues slammed out of his four-speaker system, informing him that "Jesus Just Left Chicago." Mouthing the words along with the music, he focused on the vehicle three cars back in his mirror.

The flat gray Ford Fairmont was as close to nondescript as a car could be. Boxy but not too big or small, it would be the perfect tail car, if someone wanted to follow someone else. Nothing distinguished it from the mass of Detroit molded metal on the road that morning. Nothing except familiarity. Hannibal was almost sure he'd seen this car behind him just before he reached Route 5, half an hour ago. Of course, it might not be the same car. Even if it was, there was nothing so strange about another driver taking the best route from the Eastern Shore to the District. Still...

A Land Cruiser was slowly sliding past Hannibal on his left. To Hannibal, nobody needed a vehicle that size unless they were entering a demolition derby. A Voyager trailed it by a little more than a car length, its driver's attention divided by four children bouncing in the seats behind her. Hadn't they heard about seat belts in that household? Well, maybe he would give them a reminder.

A slow smile spread across Hannibal's face and he was singing along with the music under his breath. As he and the band reached the chorus, "Beer drinkers, yeah, hell raisers," Hannibal released his accelerator to let his Volvo drift back so that the four wheel drive Cruiser was completely past him.

"Let's do it, Tornado," he muttered between lyrics. Watching his mirrors closely, he slapped the shifter down into second gear and made a sharp slide to his left. Chauffeur Mom slammed her brakes and Hannibal moved through the space and directly into the third lane. The woman was yelling at her charges, who had flown all about the inside of the van. Hannibal could spare only a sliver of attention to the kids buckling up, because he was watching the Ford, which also jogged hard left. It paused in the middle lane for a moment before moving over to the third and settling in three cars behind Hannibal.

"Well, I guess that settles that," Hannibal said. But already his exit was coming up - exit 2B, leading to that little stretch of I-295 that would take him to Maine Avenue downtown. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, Hannibal felt his engine move comfortably into overdrive as he pulled the steering wheel to dive in front of the Land Cruiser. Again he slid across two lanes of traffic to dart onto the exit ramp, and then downshifted as his car leaned into the sharp right curve. His tires made a small squeal of protest, but only for a second. When he slotted into traffic between two other skillful and determined drivers, there was no gray Fairmont in his rearview mirror. And from there, no one could guess where in Washington he may be headed. Hilton hotels were not among Hannibal's usual haunts.

* * * * *

When Hannibal stepped out of the elevator in Cindy's building he saw that the sign on the door had finally been changed. "Niesewand and Baylor" had lost its senior partner shortly after Gabriel Niesewand went to prison for his involvement in a conspiracy to defraud a wealthy client, and the murder he committed trying to keep that conspiracy a secret. Hannibal had something to do with that conviction. Now the sign read "Baylor, Truman and Ray."

"And Tinker to Evers to Chance," Hannibal thought, reminded of the famous triple play. However, moving those other two partners onto the firm's masthead did put Cindy a step or two closer to full partnership some day soon. Her star was rising very quickly indeed.

Like any major law firm, this one had its gatekeepers, but they all knew Hannibal and hardly raised their heads as he entered the office. When he did get someone's attention, he just pointed at Cindy's door and smiled.

"No one this morning," the receptionist said, meaning that Cindy had no appointments. Nodding thanks, Hannibal pushed Cindy's door open and stepped quietly inside.

Not a corner office yet, he reflected, but still quite an impressive space for a young associate. Her desk was covered with papers, books, and small sheets containing her hastily scribbled notes. Tastefully decorated he thought, with a lovely, subtle fragrance from the bowl of floating violets on a side table.

Cindy herself was nowhere to be seen, so he dropped into the visitor's chair closest to her desk. While he waited he picked up one of the firm's brochures, curious to see what else had changed since Niesewand's departure. He saw now that the firm specialized in "Emerging Business, Technology and E-Commerce (EBTEC)." Must everything have an acronym, he wondered? "At Baylor, Truman and Ray we recognize that fast-moving businesses have special needs. We have assembled a multidisciplinary team of attorneys to serve those needs - including attorneys with backgrounds in the intellectual property, securities, corporate, real estate, land use, telecommunications, environmental, labor and litigation practice areas..."

Hannibal wasn't sure how you could use the word "specialize" with a collection of areas like that, but there was pride attached to the fact that his woman, Cindy Santiago, represented the "securities" part of that list for emerging businesses. What would his brochure say, if he had one? "Hannibal Jones recognizes that life is hard and unfair. He specializes in helping people who are in trouble and need help to get out of it." Not so impressive, he thought, but it did sound more like real work.

Cindy rushed into her office in a navy blue suit and heels. She froze when she saw Hannibal, delight dancing in her dark eyes. Her arms were filled with large bound volumes of legal precedent, and she clutched a pencil between her teeth. One long strand of hair had worked loose and hung down to tickle the tip of her pert Latin nose.

"Now here's a lovely surprise," she said, once she had dropped the books on her desk and pulled the pencil free of her mouth. Hannibal stood and they shared a brief but warm embraced, ending the hug with a quick kiss. "Just in the neighborhood?"

"Actually, my current case brought me nearby, and I thought you might like to run out for a late lunch. Or have you eaten, already?"

"Oh heavens no. In fact, I really can't get away today. Do you want me to order something in? We can eat right here while I get some of this research done."

Not exactly what Hannibal had in mind, but he said, "Sure, that sounds great. If I can use your computer for a minute."

"Help yourself," Cindy said, rolling her chair a little out from her desk. Hannibal pushed the visitor chair over beside her and tapped the keys while she spoke into her intercom. The two quickly became immersed in their own tasks and sat in a comfortable silence until a young lady who may have been hired for her cuteness laid food on Cindy's desk and withdrew without a word. Cindy put her notebook down and corralled her soup and salad. Hannibal leaned back and began unwrapping his hot pastrami on rye.

"Well, this is kind of cozy," Cindy said. "So tell me how this new case is starting out. Missing person, right?"

"Well, sort of," Hannibal said after his first bite. The meat was hot and fresh, with a generous slathering of sharp, stone-ground mustard. Perfect. He sipped from his lemonade to clear his mouth. "The guy apparently stole something from a young girl he was staying with. I found out he had a suite at the Capital Hilton over on 16th Street right after he left the girl."

"What did he steal?" Cindy asked. "That's one of the most expensive places in the City. Certainly the most expensive of the Hiltons."

"Well that's just it," Hannibal said, tracking mustard down his thumb with his tongue. "We don't know what he stole, but it does sound like he's already sold it, doesn't it? Anyway, he was only at the Hilton for a week. I think he found a new mark pretty quickly."

"Okay, so you got a forwarding address, right?"

"You could be a detective," Hannibal said. "Actually, he left both a previous and a forwarding address, one in Denver, the other in Miami. But as I just confirmed with on-line mapping services, neither address actually exists."

"Okay, so he's somebody who's used to keeping a low profile. Where do you go from here?"

"From here I go back to the victim for more background info. But enough about my day. How's that DPO going?"

"Spectacular," Cindy said, pushing her fork around to gather the last of the dressing from her salad bowl. "I was just putting together a presentation for some new potential investors."

"I thought this was a great investment. Do you have to sell it?"

Cindy shook her head, still smiling. "My poor investment-ignorant Hannibal. One of the biggest problems with DPOs is the lack of a secondary market to trade these securities in. I mean, unlike shares of say, TRW or IBM that change hands by the millions every day on the New York Stock Exchange, the stock of DPO companies is kind of illiquid."

"Meaning it's hard to sell," Hannibal said.

"Well, yeah. There are sales restrictions, and they're not on an exchange so, yeah, we have to sell them." She stood, smoothed her skirt, and leaned over for another kiss. "You know, lunch was nice, but I owe you a real, home cooked meal. I'm thinking pollo con quimbobó y platanos with some black beans and rice."

"Okay, pollo is chicken, right?" Hannibal stared into her eyes with both hands on her waist, gently tugging, trying to drop her onto his lap. "That does sound good. Tonight around eight? That would give me time to straighten up."

Her eyes broke from his as conflict flashed across her face. "I've got a lot to do here, baby. Not sure how I can swing it tonight."

"Yes, I know, you're ever so busy. But tell me this: when will be a better time? When will you not be busy?"

At the gentle urging of Hannibal's hands on her waist, Cindy lowered herself onto his knees, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and brushing his nose with her own.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Okay. Dinner tonight, at your place. My man comes first."

"That's what I like to hear," Hannibal said in a very soft voice, "and maybe I'll have a little surprise for you then. Of course, if something comes up..."

"No, I absolutely promise." Cindy's mouth pouted and she batted her seductive eyelashes. "I would never want to disappoint my honey. If I don't come through..."

"If you don't then you get a spanking," Hannibal said, wagging a finger at her.

"Oh?" Cindy said, turning her face to look at him out of the corner of her eyes. "Do YOU promise?"

* * * * *

It was close to three o'clock when Hannibal again parked in front of Anita's home. He noticed that her lawn was turning brown, partially from being cut too short. Sometimes a person can pay too much attention to some jobs and do more harm than good. He imagined this girl polishing the finish off furniture too, or destroying clothes by washing them too often.

Anita opened the door before he could ring the bell. "It's good to see you again," she said. "Have you solved it all so quickly? Found Rod and brought back whatever he took away?"

"Not quite." Hannibal stepped into her sterile front room. "Thank you for meeting me here. I'm glad your schedule is so flexible."

"Oh, I have a full day's work but I always start early and finish early," Anita said with evident pride. "So please, have a seat and tell me what you've learned. Coffee?"

Hannibal continued to stand at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. "Sure, coffee's fine. I wanted to tell you where we are with the investigation. First of all, your friend Rod will not be easy to find. He's covering his tracks pretty well, using false addresses and so forth. So I've decided to approach this from two different directions. First, I'm afraid I'll need to question this LaPage woman. You said you saw Rod coming out of her house."

He watched Anita nod as she fussed about the kitchen. She was dumping out the coffee she had brewed for herself, making him a fresh pot. "Mr. Blair might not like that. They're neighbors and I think they belong to some of the same associations and such."

"I'll check with him," Hannibal said. "The other best chance is to figure out what your father left here that anyone would want to steal. He must have told Rod about his treasure. People get lonely in prison, and sometimes that makes them talkative. Maybe he really did expect the man to come here and protect you. In any case, I think it must have been something he took away from work, maybe insider trading information or pharmaceutical trade secrets."

"I don't think Daddy would do anything like that," Anita said as she poured freshly filtered water into the back of her coffee maker.

"Even so, I think I need to talk to some of the people he worked with."

Anita paused for a moment in the middle of measuring scoops of coffee. "I'm afraid I don't know any of the people Daddy worked with."

"I see. Well, I might find some leads in his office, if I can poke around in there a little more."

"Of course," Anita said. "Whatever might help. Say, I've got some corn muffins here. Why don't you go ahead to the study and when everything's ready I'll bring a tray down to you."

Walking down the carpeted steps to the office, Hannibal was shaking his head, silently admitting that Anita's subservient attitude was starting to irritate him. But then, if the girl had shown a bit more backbone, this Rod would never have been able to take advantage of her as he did. Hannibal always thought all women raised by men would be more like Cindy, who spent her formative years with just her father. Perhaps Anita was looking for a replacement for her lost father when Rod appeared on the scene. If so, he must have enjoyed being taken care of and catered to in a way Hannibal never would.

While one part of his mind toyed with that personality puzzle, the rest of it explored the office, searching for some evidence that Anita's father had connections with anyone else at Isermann -Börner. Nothing on the desk or any of its cubbyholes yielded a clue. He leafed quickly through the books on the dust-free shelves. It didn't take long to ascertain that Mr. Cooper never made personal references.

Letters? Memos? Hannibal turned his attention to the gray metal filing cabinet in the corner. He yanked at the handle. Locked. Well, that was a good sign. Maybe there was something inside worth hiding. Not wanting to wait for Anita, Hannibal drew a small plastic kit from an inside jacket pocket. The case was about the size of a credit card and no thicker than a computer floppy disc. From it he drew two slender bits of spring steel. He slid the metal slivers into the filing cabinet's lock and five seconds later, pulled the top drawer open.

The file folders were all neatly labeled, and most of the labels meant nothing to Hannibal. Chemical compounds, he guessed, or abbreviations for them, except for the folder at the very back whose label read, "rules." Curiosity drew his hand toward it, then past it. In the dark in the back of the drawer a sparkle had caught his eye. It was the glint of metal on what appeared to be a leather strap.

Hannibal pulled the unexpected object from the drawer. A dog's collar, he thought, but for a good sized animal. It was a simple black leather strap about fourteen or fifteen inches long, with a square silver buckle. Odd that the collar would be locked in a file cabinet, he thought, and stranger still that he had seen no evidence of a dog or even a cat in the house. He had seen no food, water bowl, pet toys, or any of the usual telltale signs.

The collar made him curious, but didn't seem relevant to his investigation. Idly, he pulled the "rules" folder out with his free hand, dropped it on top of the filing cabinet, and flipped it open. It appeared to contain only five or six sheets of paper, with several lines handwritten in a very fine and precise script, with gold ink. Not a man's hand, more likely Anita's. The hair on the back of Hannibal's neck rose to attention as he scanned the first few numbered lines.

#1. I worship my Master.

#2. I worship my Master's body.

#3. I will serve, obey and please my Master.

The numbers went up to ninety, but that was enough for him. Hannibal flipped the folder closed and just managed to get it back where he found it when he heard a gasp behind him, followed by another sound, like a partial sob. He turned to see Anita, her mouth open and her face flushed bright crimson. Her eyes darted left and right, as if she would run off if not for the tray she was holding. The tray held a coffee pot, cup, sugar and creamer set, and a plate of muffins. After a moment of paralysis, she appeared to buckle at the knees. Hannibal moved to help her, but she carefully placed the tray onto a chair and knelt in front of it, facing down at the tray as if the empty cup was endlessly fascinating. Hannibal suddenly felt like an intruder. He also felt very slow, having not realized at first that the object in his hand was a symbol of shame for the woman he was trying to help.

"This is yours," he said slowly, before realizing how pointless that comment was.

Anita squeezed her knees with her hands, and nodded her head.

Hannibal was treading into unfamiliar waters, but some things seemed to string together. "Rod?"

Her head moved up and down again, and he saw a tear drop to her skirt.

"Please," he said aloud, "please stand up." In his mind he was screaming, "For God's sake, get off your knees."

Anita rose and turned to face him with unexpected grace. She seemed to be staring at his navel, but for the firs time Hannibal wondered if her downcast gaze was the result of shame or training. He let the silence hang, quite sure that she knew the questions that needed answers. When at last she spoke it was in a voice so well controlled that it surprised him.

"When Rod got here my life had no direction, no purpose. I had dedicated much of my life to my father, and he to me. When he died I had nothing. No one. Life just happened to me. It was all spinning out of control. Rod, he explained my purpose, gave me a role in life. Mostly he was good to me. Gave me direction and trained me."

"Trained you?" Hannibal's stomach twisted tight, like a knotted dishrag. "To do what, to be his servant, his slave?"

Silent tears began to slide down Anita's face. "I needed guidance. He showed me how to behave and what to do."

The water on Hannibal's skin wasn't tears, but sweat, sending a chill up his spine. "Did he," no easy way to ask, he decided. "Did he beat you?"

"He didn't want to," she said. "Only when I made him do it. Only when I was bad. Or if I wasn't learning."

Hannibal suddenly remembered the collar in his hand, black leather that matched his glove. He dropped it on the filing cabinet. "Learning what, I wonder," he said, mostly to himself.

Anita's tears flowed more freely and she gave a soft sob before answering this time. "He made me do things. Things I never did before. But it made him happy for me to do these things and I needed to learn the joy of making him happy."

She sounded as if she was giving a memorized speech. Hannibal's hands trembled with rage and he clenched his fists to stop them. She stood still, as if waiting for something. His reaction? Condemnation? Her next order?

Hannibal reached slowly forward, to place his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Look at me." No reaction. He raised his left hand to whip his glasses off. She flinched when his hand moved. He pointed to his own eyes. "Look at me."

Anita raised her face slowly, as if fighting against some invisible hand pressing down on her head. When she made eye contact, Hannibal thought he could see all the way down into her fractured soul. He clenched his teeth, but it did not stop his breath from hissing through them.

"Listen to me. I know this man did things that damaged your spirit, maybe some things you're very ashamed of. But none of this is your fault. You hear me? This man turned you, twisted you in ways you couldn't possibly defend against. But believe me, I will find him, and I will make sure he pays you back for everything he took from you. I swear to you he will pay."

Anita broke down completely, crying aloud, her face twisted into that mask that looks so much like laughing if you could turn off the sound. Sobs rocked her body and she leaned close enough for her tears to dampen Hannibal's shirt.

"Please," she gasped out, in rhythm with her crying, "Please, sir. Please don't hurt him."