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’l
l 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?”
Hannibal Jones - 04 - Damaged Goods Page 2