Hannibal Jones - 04 - Damaged Goods

by Austin S. Camacho

  “I don’t ask clients for credit histories.”

  Blair swooped in toward the table at a pace that made Hannibal shrank back. “No, but for you to help them, they have to trust you with their darkest secrets, things they’d tell no one else. That’s because more often than not, trouble comes from keeping secrets. Am I right?”

  Hannibal thought about Anita’s leather collar and nodded.

  Blair seized his small victory with both hands. “Yes. The whole point of the services we offer is trust. The trust of the client is the number one business asset of our age. And I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t trust you to do what you need to do to get the job done. Besides, six years as a cop in New York City, half that time as a city detective, then almost eight years in the secret service. Who could be more trustworthy?”

  “How?”

  “I told you I checked you out, didn’t I? Anyway, the bottom line is, if I thought I needed to have you followed I’d have just hired somebody else, you know?”

  Hannibal nodded again as he stood. “Yes, I guess I do know. Sorry, but I had to ask.”

  “I understand,” Blair said. His voice had calmed back down and he sounded like the little boy again, instead of the fanatic he was just seconds before. “So, is Marquita LaPage your next stop?”

  “Right. She should be able to give me a lead as to Mantooth’s path after he left the area.”

  “Well I hope she’s home,” Blair said. “I heard the place was up for sale.”

  At the door Hannibal paused and turned. “Shorter,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The five letter word that becomes shorter when you add two letters to it,” Hannibal said. “The word is short.”

  * * * * *

  The sun was sliding down the left side of the sky when Hannibal pulled into Marquita LaPage’s driveway, throwing a series of long black shadows across the landscape. He was barely two miles from Blair’s townhouse, yet the difference was startling. While Blair’s home looked smaller than it was from the outside, Hannibal was now surrounded by detached houses making a big outward showing of their size. Marquita LaPage’s colonial crouched behind six wide white columns whose shadows pooled to his right, to become one thick slash of darkness reaching to the neighbor’s yard.

  Hannibal parked behind the silver Lexus and stepped out onto the asphalt. The sprawling, three-level structure stood proudly on its corner, yet the signs of neglect jumped out at Hannibal as he headed for the door. The lawn had not been mown or edged in quite a while, giving it a disheveled appearance relative to the yards on either side, which appeared to suffer from compulsive neatness. The mailbox flap was ajar, unable to hold back the crowd of neglected envelopes. And the rows of violets along the path to the three steps were gasping for water.

  The doorbell gave a merry chime, but nearly thirty seconds of silence followed. Hannibal was reaching for the button again when the door swung inward. His first reaction to the vision before him was that he might have awakened a ghost.

  The woman half hidden by the door wore dull platinum blonde hair that accented her apparently bloodless skin. The exposed arm was rail thin, and he could see her ribs through her silk dressing gown. Her makeup was smudged, as if it had been applied yesterday or maybe the day before but never washed off. Somewhere underneath the lipstick and mascara lay a pert nose, high cheekbones and full, pouting lips. If not for the bags under her eyes and her haggard expression she might have been beautiful. As it was, this pale specter gave him a chill. Judging from her bulging eyes and trembling lower lip, he scared her even more.

  “Ms. LaPage?” Hannibal asked. The woman nodded. “My name is Hannibal Jones. May I come in for a moment?” Her light brown eyes looked around him as if she hoped someone was standing behind him. “I just want to speak with you for a moment.” She tried a tentative smile and Hannibal returned it.

  “What’s this about?” she asked, with an accent Hannibal didn’t recognize.

  “It’s about a man you know. Rod Mantooth.”

  On hearing the name, Marquita stiffened and a series of emotions moved across her face too quickly for Hannibal to identify them individually. Surprise was certainly among them, and fear and something like resignation. Then she forced a bigger smile and tilted her head in a welcoming bow.

  “Of course. Please come in, Mr. Jones.”

  Marquita led him through a broad living room into a plush sitting room. White carpets appeared to cover the floors of the house everywhere Hannibal could see. The furniture was a soft cowhide and hand-rubbed maple. But dusting had been left too long undone, and the carpet had not been vacuumed in a while. The air conditioner labored more noisily than it should, as if it had not been serviced in months.

  Marquita never spoke another word as she waved Hannibal onto a sofa in the sitting room and busied herself at the bar across the room. The sofa smelled of spilled bourbon, probably the same stuff Marquita was filling two tumblers with.

  “You needn’t pour for me, ma’am,” Hannibal said. Marquita gave him a quizzical look, pushed the second glass aside, and tipped her head back to swallow half the contents of the first. Then she walked very slowly to stand in front of Hannibal, bowed low and smiled as seductively as she could. She was not quite steady on her feet, but she tried hard to sway her hips anyway.

  “So, Hannibal eh? That’s rather an unusual name,” she said in what sounded almost like a French lilt to him, or like the Haitians he knew. “So what would you like, Hannibal? Maybe a little dance first? I dance well, they tell me. Or do you have a favorite game? Or perhaps you’d just like to go right to it?” Her arm rose with surprising grace toward the stairs.

  Hannibal rose to his feet, his palms faced toward his hostess. “Look, I don’t think you understand.”

  Marquita took two steps backward, her eyes darting from side to side, confusion or nervousness making her lick her lips. “Wait. What did I do? You can’t… I mean you have to at least tell me what I did wrong.”

  Hannibal’s mouth became very dry and his stomach lurched. Marquita’s behavior was bringing back an ugly recent memory. “Oh my God. Did he do it to you too? Look, just sit down a minute.”

  His voice must have been more menacing than he had intended, because Marquita dropped to her knees in apparent terror. Her back was straight, her legs spread wide, and he could see she wore nothing under her nightgown. Her head was raised, but her eyes would not look high enough to see his face. This must be a practiced pose, he thought. But he had to be sure.

  “You know the rules, don’t you? Even after number three.”

  Instantly she replied, “I trust my master. Above all else, my only desire is to please my master. I am always in complete submission to my master.”

  He waved a hand, and Marquita stopped talking. She sat there on the floor, her feet on either side of her hips, looking almost straight ahead, as if waiting for instructions. As gently as he could, Hannibal grasped her upper arms and very slowly lifted her to her feet. Here skin was cold and clammy.

  “Ms. LaPage. I know what you must think, but I’m not here as a friend of Rod Mantooth’s.”

  Marquita’s eyes spent a few seconds trying to focus before she asked, “Master didn’t send you?”

  “No, ma’am. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about him.”

  “Then, you’re not like the others? He didn’t send you?”

  “Others?” Hannibal asked. “Other men have come to see you?”

  “Oh no.” Marquita’s face twisted into a strained expression that looked to Hannibal more ghastly than the faces he had seen on men who suffered violent deaths. “Oh my God no. You’re not one of them? And I just…” She was babbling, her face bright red with what he guessed must be shame. At least he knew that was what he would be feeling.

  “Relax,” Hannibal said. “I’m not here to hurt you. You’re safe now.”

  “Safe?’ Marquita said in a far away voice. “Look what I’ve become. How did I ever com
e to this? How can I be safe now, after what I’ve become?”

  Hannibal thought she was about to break away from him, just before she passed out in his arms.

  -7-

  Standing and watching. Hannibal hated it. He hated the feeling of frustration and helplessness. He hated not being able to take action. Standing and watching was a role for someone else. But at that moment, it was all he could do.

  Dr. Quincy Roberts stepped away from Marquita’s bed, watching her chest rise and fall with deep, slow breaths. He eased out of the room past Hannibal who stood in the doorway and softly closed the door after Roberts passed.

  “Thank you again for coming,” Hannibal said, following Roberts to the living room.

  “I’m not sure why I did.” Roberts was old enough to be Hannibal’s father, but even through his thick glasses one could still see a youthful gleam in his eye. In fact, his thick gray beard would have given him a Santa Clause look if his cheeks weren’t so pale. He wore a golf shirt and casual slacks with Docksiders. Hannibal wondered if he had called the man from his boat or the golf course.

  “You came because you knew I was desperate,” Hannibal said, lowering himself to the sofa, “and because you knew you were needed.”

  Roberts fished a pipe out of one pocket and a lighter out of another. “And perhaps because you saved one of my patients from being wrongly convicted of murder not long ago. I gave her a mild sedative to help her rest for a while. But that woman needs an internist as much as a psychiatrist. She’s in bad shape.”

  Hannibal threw up his hands. “She was hysterical, man. When she passed out I figured the cause was more emotional than physical. Believe me, she’s been assaulted mentally and emotionally. But that’s not what you meant by her being in bad shape, was it? What kind of physical problems are we talking about?”

  Roberts got his pipe lit and sucked on it hard a couple of times before speaking. “Well, for one thing she’s a little dehydrated. I suspect that’s from using alcohol in place of water. And I think she’s malnourished too.”

  “There are lots of women that thin around here, doc.” Hannibal relaxed for the first time in an hour. It could have been the cherry scent of Roberts’ tobacco or Roberts’ own calming manner, but whatever the cause, his shoulders lowered and his breathing deepened. “And those problems sound pretty easy to fix. You just check her into a hospital for a day or two…”

  “I can’t do that,” Roberts said. “And what did you mean, assaulted mentally? It looked to me like she was alone here.”

  “She was when I arrived,” Hannibal said. “But she’s terrified of something, or someone.”

  “A typical client of yours, if I remember.”

  Hannibal sighed aloud. “She’s not my client, but I think she’s been abused by the same man who practically enslaved a client of mine. I’m looking for this guy, and she might be my best lead when she wakes up. She’s hysterical, and you said she’s in rough shape physically. That part’s probably all self-induced, right? So why can’t you admit her someplace safe?”

  Roberts chuckled, pushing puffs of smoke out between his teeth. “She’s not my patient, my friend. She’s an adult and there’s no evidence that she’s in any immediate danger to herself or others. I can help her if she decides to check herself into a facility when she wakes up.”

  “That’s not likely. She’s ashamed of what she’s done with this man, or for this man. I don’t think she’ll want to go anywhere. But I sure don’t think she should be here alone, not after this.”

  “I agree she would benefit from some looking after,” Roberts said. “Without actually speaking with her, I’d say there’s evidence that she really doesn’t care enough to take care of herself right now.”

  Hannibal stood, hands in pockets. “So, we seem to have ourselves a situation here.”

  Roberts rose as well, nodding. “No, my friend. I believe you have yourself a situation. You are not responsible for this woman in any way. But I sense that you don’t see it that way.”

  “I found her like this,” Hannibal said, waving to take in the whole house. “How can I leave her like this? How can you?”

  Roberts was already moving toward the door, as if he was afraid he might get stuck in the house. “Here is what I will do. Give me a call tomorrow and let me know what the situation is. If she is willing, I will stop back out and check up on her, see if she wants my help. And by the way, you’ll receive a bill for this house call.”

  “Of course.” Hannibal followed Roberts to the door, and shook his hand as he opened it. “I really do appreciate your responding to my panicked call. And I guarantee you won’t get stuck for a bill. My client has deep pockets, and I consider this part of the expenses on my case. He’ll see that this was necessary for me to follow the trail.”

  “Good luck with your new charge,” Roberts said. “Me, I may just get home to the Mrs. in time for dinner. I’ll check on Ms. LaPage in the morning and see if perhaps she does want to be checked into a facility for better rest.”

  As the door swung closed, Hannibal muttered, “Dinner” and pulled out his cell phone. After listening to his own answering machine message, he called Cindy’s house and listened to hers. Next, he called her office, still not sure exactly what he was going to tell her. He knew he couldn’t just leave Marquita’s house, but the reasons seemed too complex to put in order.

  This time the phone only rang three times. When the connection was made it had the hollow echo of a speakerphone, and he wondered if he would even need an explanation.

  “Hey honey,” Cindy said. “I’m almost out of here, honest. Just wrapping up some stuff and I know I’ll be a little late but I’ll get there.”

  Well, at least she recognized his number on her phone’s caller I.D. screen. Relief and irritation played tug-of-war in Hannibal’s mind. Maybe that’s why his voice came out flat and neutral.

  “Listen, sweetheart, maybe it’s just as well you’re still at the office. The case has already produced some odd twists, and, well, this would be a bad time to leave.”

  “I understand, baby. That’s the way it goes with two busy professionals, eh? Well, let’s just make it tomorrow, okay?”

  Just like that. No questions, not even an expression of disappointment. He could be a hundred miles away with another woman for all she knew. In fact, he was with another woman. It was irritating.

  “Yeah, okay, tomorrow,” Hannibal said.

  “Okay, hon, let’s both get back to work. Love you.”

  Like that, she was gone. Hannibal dropped his phone in a jacket pocket. Whether he liked it or not, at least he understood her dedication. Why, on the other hand, was he still at Marquita’s house? She was not a client, nor had she even asked for help. As Roberts had said, she was an adult who was responsible for herself. Why couldn’t he just walk away and return to his own life?

  He turned a slow circle, taking in the undusted furniture, mail piled on a small table and the kitchen cluttered with several days worth of dishes. The dished had clearly been left where they were used, many still holding bits of food. She may be responsible for herself, but he could see that she couldn’t take care of herself right now.

  Shaking his head at himself, Hannibal pulled off his gloves and went to the kitchen. The floor was sticky in spots, but he ignored it and started stacking dishes in the sink. One job at a time, he told himself. Scraping food off plates and putting them in the dishwasher, Hannibal wondered if his motivations were just selfish. He had to face it. He didn’t know Marquita LaPage at all, certainly not enough to care about her. But he knew staying there made him feel better, and that leaving would make him feel like crap. He also knew that he wouldn’t think much of a man who could casually walk away from a sick, abused woman.

  He turned as a new noise captured his attention. The sound started low, but built up in seconds. It would have been a scream if it weren’t interrupted so often by a panting breath. Hannibal wondered what would happen if Marquita hyperventilated.<
br />
  He raced to the bedroom but hesitated at the door. When he opened it, the odor pushed him back for a moment. He recoiled from the distinctive smell of unwashed clothes, spilled liquor and something more. Something sour. As he approached the bed he saw the source. Marquita lay face up on a king size bed, eyes on him, her lips barely an inch from a pool of fresh vomit. The shame he had seen in her eyes before was more evident now.

  Hannibal walked around to the other side of the bed, placed his hand on her stomach and pulled her toward him, away from the mess. When she turned, she rolled easily into his arms. He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling her like a frightened child.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “You’re not alone and you’re not going to be. In fact, I think we’re going to make you well.”

  Her skin was clammy, her eyes wild, her voice raspy as she weakly tried to pull away. “Stop it. Stop being so nice to me. Treat me like I deserve. Ain’t you never seen a Cajun whore before?”

  Only then did Hannibal register the golden tint beneath the paleness of her skin. It seemed irrelevant at the moment, except perhaps to pinpoint a pattern of behavior for Mr. Rod Mantooth. If Hannibal was right about that, it was just one more reason to hate this man he’d never met.

  In the time it took him to form that thought, Hannibal realized that Marquita was asleep. Her head rested on his left forearm and her breasts heaved against his thigh. He knew she might awaken at any moment, and would need watching all night. He also knew he needed to find this Mantooth fast, and that meant being alert tomorrow. While Marquita settled into a soft snore, he pulled out his cell phone and pushed buttons. When he made the connection he could hear the sounds of people working at partying. The club was hopping for a Wednesday night. Under the circumstances, he dispensed with most of the pleasantries.