Hannibal Jones - 04 - Damaged Goods

by Austin S. Camacho

  The beeping accelerated and seemed to become louder in the otherwise silent hospital room. Anita stared hard into Cindy’s eyes and squeezed her hand until their fingers were white. Her eyes crinkled, fighting to contain tears and begging the other woman for understanding.

  “I don’t want revenge,” she said. “I just want my money.”

  “You contacted him somehow?” Hannibal asked.

  “I saw him,” Anita said. She seemed to overcome the tears, but words poured out instead. “I saw him. I was coming out of the Giant and there was that car, sitting in the parking lot. I dropped my groceries and waited for him. When he came to the car he looked right through me, as if he didn’t recognize me. I told him I knew he had taken something from the house.”

  “You confronted him?”

  “He must have sold whatever he took, I figured, so I demanded a share of what he got. I told him he owed me at least that much.”

  Hannibal doubted the conversation went quite that way, but the result was pretty clear. “He laughed in your face, right? I mean, he sure didn’t see you as any kind of threat. So why would he be so rough?”

  “He said I was stale. Used. He needed fresh…” Anita’s entire face clenched and the tears finally flowed down the sides of her face.

  Cindy completed her sentence. “He needs fresh meat. That bastard.”

  “I was so angry, and ashamed.” Anita sobbed now, not trying to hide it or hold back. “I wanted to hurt him, but I couldn’t. So I took my keys and I made a scratch. Right on the door of his precious car.”

  Good for you, Hannibal thought.

  “That was very brave,” Cindy said. “Very brave and stupid. Look what he did to you. But Anita, why didn’t you tell the police who it was?”

  “They’d put him in jail,” Anita said. “If he’s in jail, I’ll never get any of my money.”

  Hannibal knew she had other, deeper reasons for not sending Rod to jail. Hannibal couldn’t guess how it might affect her if she was the reason for Rod getting arrested.

  “Okay, you just stay here and rest up and heal,” Hannibal said. “I’ll find this guy and when I do I’ll make sure you’re made whole. I swear it.” Hannibal knew that commitment could have two meanings, and he meant it both ways.

  * * * * *

  Only Cindy’s presence enabled Hannibal to contain his frustration as he slogged through the stagnant midday traffic. Fairfax Inova was in fact in Falls Church, Virginia, positioned so that Washington was accessible without having to leave the highway. But even after the Monday lunch hour, driving the beltway was like swimming through maple syrup. After a couple of miles on I-495 he turned onto I-66, which moved even more slowly. His tension was compounded by the fact that he had surrendered the stereo to Cindy, who flipped the radio to the smooth jazz station. In this kind of traffic, with the air conditioner blowing full blast, he desperately wanted to rock out.

  Eventually he reached the Constitution Avenue exit, dropped Cindy at her building, switched to an AC/DC CD and got back on Constitution for what he knew would be a leisurely roll east. Driving slowly through the city didn’t bother him the way slow motion on the highway did. After all his years in residence, Hannibal still enjoyed the eclectic architecture that downtown D.C. offered. Nodding his head to “Highway to Hell,” he smiled at the city’s internal conflict, symbolized by the contrast of the ostentatious Smithsonian buildings on his left and the park-like stillness of the Capital Mall on his right. Tourists rushed about on his left, trying to see how much they could see in one day. On his right, locals meandered across the thin grass on their bikes or on foot.

  Then he maneuvered onto I-395, which moved a little faster and dropped him onto I-295, which flowed faster still. That carried him down past the Navy Yard and across the river into his own neighborhood, Anacostia.

  Hannibal stepped out into the humidity, surprised to see Marquita’s silver Lexus a few spaces ahead of his own. In the hallway he was even more surprised to hear movement in his office. The door was ajar. Hannibal rested his hand on the Sig Sauer hanging under his right arm and stepped toward the door, careful not to make a sound. The opening was just wide enough for one eye to see through, but the view prompted a soft smile. Marquita stood leaning back against Hannibal’s desk. Sarge had an arm around her waist and was pressing forward slowly for a kiss. It was the kind of moment that makes a man feel like a voyeur, but also makes it hard to turn away.

  Then Sarge’s free hand tenderly touched Marquita’s thigh, and Hannibal saw her flinch. Sarge froze, the moment shattered. Hannibal felt Marquita’s pain, but he knew that Sarge carried his own scars. He was a survivor, a man who had come through firefights in Vietnam, fistfights in Mississippi, the spiral into homelessness and the long climb back to self-respect. Hannibal wasn’t sure he could take another blow to the heart. He was strong, but Marquita was damaged goods, and trying to hold her together could break him apart.

  Hannibal took two silent steps backward, then almost stomped forward and pushed the door open. Sarge snapped erect and pulled back from Marquita, who grew a quick, nervous smile.

  “Didn’t expect to find you guys here,” Hannibal said, pulling his jacket off and hanging it on the tall coat rack beside the door without looking directly at his guests. “Hang on a sec. Be right back.”

  Hannibal walked through the next three rooms of the converted flat to the kitchen at the back and pulled a bottle of filtered water from the small refrigerator. Sarge and Marquita were more composed when he returned with it to the office. Hannibal gave Sarge a questioning look.

  “I wanted to get Markie away from that house for a while.” Sarge said. “Then, when we got here I decided to show her your office, you know, give her the tour.”

  Hannibal went to the coffee pot on the small table beside his desk and poured the water into the reservoir.

  “I think that was a good idea. I was going to call you, but since you’re here I can update you in person.”

  “Did you find out something from Anita?” Sarge asked. Hannibal poured Hawaiian Kona beans into the other side of the coffee maker, hit a button, and spoke over the whirring sound of the beans being ground.

  “My client, Anita Cooper, was beaten pretty badly Saturday night.”

  After a brief pause to inhale the aroma of fresh-ground beans, he sat behind his desk and continued.

  “This morning she admitted to me that Mantooth did it.” Marquita sucked in a breath and her fawn colored eyes stretched wide open. “Yes,” Hannibal continued, “He’s back in the area.”

  Marquita’s shock and fear pushed her into a different world from Sarge’s immediate rage.

  “We gotta find this son of a bitch.”

  “No,” Hannibal said, keeping his voice calm. “I gotta find him. You need to stay on your assignment. Keep Marquita safe until this is over.”

  Marquita clung to Sarge, placing a hand on his chest as if wanting to literally cling to his heart. Mantooth had a lot to pay for, but bringing these two together could turn out to be an unintended consequence of his evil. Good could come of it, but they needed time. Hannibal pulled a credit card out of his wallet.

  “I want you to take Marquita out of town. Someplace with lots of people, but peaceful. An amusement park, or the beach or somewhere. Here, it’s a legitimate expense for the case. Get her to someplace nice while I’m on the hunt.”

  * * * * *

  Once Sarge was packed and on the road, Hannibal filled a mug with coffee and sipped on his feet. He found himself pacing his office with no leads, no clues and no next step. He had done some skip tracing work before, but Mantooth was being more elusive than anyone Hannibal had pursued before. He seemed to live on cash alone, no credit card or checks. He used an alias for hotels and, it appeared, any other services he used. Still, people have pasts and people make mistakes. With no better course available, Hannibal hopped back into the White Tornado and headed for the courthouse to check for public records. Again, the midday traffic on I-295
was onerous. He could always amuse himself for a few minutes reading the license plates around him. He was certain that the Washington area had the highest per capita rate of vanity plates in the country. Decoding them was always amusing, at least for a while. When that grew boring he decided to have a consultation with a doctor.

  “You must have me on speed dial,” Quincy Roberts said after a secretary passed Hannibal’s call to him. “What kind of trouble are you bringing me now?”

  “Not trouble, Doc, just a couple of questions,” Hannibal said as 2COOL 4U slid past him on his right. He looked at the driver. She wasn’t.

  “I’m free for about fifteen minutes,” Roberts said. “But I’ll bill you anyway. What can I do for you?”

  “First, tell me why a guy would steal the formula for a new painkiller. What with aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, codeine and a dozen others already there, what’s the big deal?” Now a guy in a suit was rolling past in H8 2 W8. Why was the right lane moving so much more quickly?

  “You could just as easily have asked, why was ibuprofen of any value after acetaminophen was found,” Roberts said. “To oversimplify, every one of the drugs you named works differently. If a new one came along that lasted longer, or worked better for arthritis pain or migraine headaches, it could be worth a fortune. And since development cost is so great, stealing the formula saves a company a great deal. But these pharmaceutical companies have very good security.”

  “Yeah,” Hannibal said, “but you can’t really defend against a guy working on an undocumented project, right?” At least this much of Hathaway’s story held up. It wouldn’t be hard to fake notes, show failure when there was success, or simply work on one thing while appearing to work on another, especially if you had a coworker covering for you.

  “Okay, now a more theoretical question. What would you say if someone told you they had developed a cure for drug addiction?”

  “I would say that they are either lying or several years ahead of medical science,” Roberts said. “It’s theoretically possible, at least for the chemical dependency, not the psychological slice.”

  “So it could be done? And it would have commercial value?”

  “Its value today could hardly be measured,” Roberts said. “To free people of drug addiction with a simple pill or shot instead of years of therapy? It’s like a pharmaceutical holy grail. And yes, it’s possible in theory. One could develop a vaccine I suppose, that would create antibodies that could destroy the drug before it could affect you. Or it might just prevent the drug from passing through the blood-brain barrier. You’d be full of the addictive material, but you wouldn’t get the high, and that would make breaking the addiction cycle much easier. Squashing the brain’s addiction response would be much harder, but still possible I guess. Hannibal, should I take it that this is more than a theoretical conversation? What you’re talking about could be the pivotal pharmaceutical advance of our age.”

  Hannibal was listening, but also watching for his exit. As it came near he signaled right, which prompted the driver beside him to speed up to fill the gap Hannibal was about to drive into.

  “You dick!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Roberts said.

  “Sorry, Doc. Thanks a lot for the background info. I think what you’re talking about is what someone stole from one of my clients, and now I have some ideas about how the thief might want to sell the formula. Hey, I need to focus on driving right now.”

  “Keep me posted on this new theoretical discovery,” Robert said. “I have some patients who could be saved by just such a miracle drug.”

  * * * * *

  The balance of the day consisted of the kind of grunt work most private detectives pay their bills with. Hannibal searched court files, property records and motor vehicle records for any sign of a recent address for Rod, Roderick or Roger Mantooth. He accessed Mantooth’s prison records for past addresses, and ran each one down to its predictable dead end. Mantooth had listed no next of kin or emergency contact numbers. Credit bureau records proved equally useless. Military records appeared nonexistent. The few numbers that matched his name in national telephone directories proved to belong to solid citizens who could not be the man Hannibal sought.

  When he finally returned home Hannibal’s frustration burned in his stomach like bad Mexican food. This time, as he entered his building he looked to the left, toward his own apartment. But, feeling that his work day shouldn’t be over, he turned right and went to his office. He had just turned the doorknob when Ray entered the building behind him.

  “Hey, how’s it hanging Paco?” Ray called. “You found the bad guy yet?”

  Hannibal shook his head as he flung the door open. “This one’s being a bitch, and I’m afraid I’m running out of time. Any sign of the Corvorado?”

  “Oh, that half Cadillac thing? Nada. None of the driver’s has spotted it. And from your description, it would be pretty hard to miss.”

  Hannibal nodded, but said nothing more as Ray climbed the stairs to his own apartment. There was plenty for them to talk about, but Ray looked tired at the end of a long workday, and Hannibal had to admit he was focused on Mantooth, an abusive thief who had gone to ground very effectively.

  Inside, Hannibal poured the remains of the morning’s pot down the sink and pulled out a French press to brew one more perfect cup. Ray had a point. That car would be almost impossible to miss if it was on the streets anywhere in the area. That raised an ugly thought. Had Mantooth moved on? Despite his apparent arrogance he may have realized that beating Anita would raise his profile enough to catch someone’s attention.

  At his desk, Hannibal stared into the transparent cylinder as if all the answers he needed were swirling inside with the coffee as he pushed the plunger down. But as shadows lengthened in the room, his computer monitor drew his attention. After filling his mug, he tapped a key and thought about the community he had so recently poked his virtual nose into.

  In search of more insight, Hannibal returned to one of the chat rooms he had visited Saturday night. He hoped that a stranger might tell him what neither Anita nor Marquita could: how a woman could get caught up in this game of dominance.

  As soon as he logged into the chat room he was greeted by several identical messages, “Hello Hannibal Sir.” He selected one of the speakers, nicknamed charmer, and after a few fumbles managed to open a private window.

  “Hello. Can we talk for a minute?” Hannibal typed. Even through the computer it felt more like hitting on a girl in a bar than like the start of an interview.

  “Yes Sir,” charmer responded. “How may i serve You?”

  Hannibal was tempted to tell her to drop the “Sir,” but decided that if she did, it might make her less likely to respond. “I’m new here and just trying to learn,” he said. “Would you be willing to tell me how you got involved in such violent role-play?”

  A short pause. “Violent? Not sure i understand, Sir.”

  “Are you new as well?” Hannibal asked. “Don’t you know what these guys do to their girls?” This time the pause was much longer.

  “You aren’t familiar with the lifestyle at all, are You Sir?”

  “I admit I’m not,” Hannibal typed. “Just trying to learn.” The next typed line was the first of many surprises for him.

  “This is not merely online play for me, Sir. i am submissive in R/L.” This, he had figured out, was the abbreviation for “real life.” For some reason, his mouth felt drier and he gulped coffee before typing again.

  “You are a masochist then?” Reading his words he wondered if he had just insulted her. To her credit, charmer surprised him again with a calm response.

  “BDSM is not about violence, Sir. It’s something sexy and trusting you do with someone you care about. i trust Master completely and take joy in pleasing Him. In return, He protects and nurtures me.”

  “And it’s okay for this person you care about to beat you?” Hannibal asked.

  “If Master punishes me, it is b
ecause i have done something wrong and deserve it.”

  He easily imagined Anita saying those words not long ago. He sipped his coffee, wanting to push the conversation farther.

  “And if he decides to lend you out to other men? Do you deserve that too?”

  “Master would never do that, Sir.” charmer said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Sir, are you a reporter?” charmer asked.

  “No, I promise you I’m not.” Hannibal replied. “Please help me understand how you can be so confident he wouldn’t give you away.”

  “Master loves me,” charmer said. “And besides, that is one of my limits.”

  “Limits?” Hannibal asked, pausing to think before typing again. “I don’t understand.”

  “When He took me as His own, Master gave me His rules, which i must obey. At the same time i gave him my limits, which are the things i will not or cannot do. i would not be collared by a man unless we could agree on limits. Nor would a Master take a sub who did not respect His rules.”

  Hannibal sat back farther from the glow of the screen. He knew that the collar signified ownership, but apparently it did not suspend all rights. Had Anita or Marquita established limits? That seemed unlikely. Perhaps Rod had only shown them one side of this life. And maybe this whole thing wasn’t as black and white as Hannibal had assumed.

  “Your limits don’t include his beating you?”

  “As i said, Sir, Master would not punish me unless i deserved to be punished.”

  “But it’s up to him how much of a beating you deserve,” Hannibal said. “He could injure you, brutalize you.” At this point his thoughts flowed directly into the keyboard, almost like thinking aloud.

  “Are You purposely testing me, Sir?” charmer asked. “You can tell Master that I have no fear. He is not a brute. I have never needed to use my safe word, nor do I ever expect to.”