A sergeant had seated Hannibal and Ray in a pair of plastic chairs outside Dalton’s tiny, glass walled office. Lighting was dim in the room, and what there was got absorbed by dingy once-white walls and dark green floor tiles. Ray waited poorly, fidgeting and grumbling so much Hannibal finally asked him to explore the building to see if there was a snack bar or something.
As Ray stepped out of sight, Terry Dalton lurched up the hall from the other direction. He seemed less aggressive now. Dragging himself along, he looked as old as the building he worked in, and as run down. Continuous use and a lack of maintenance, Hannibal thought, the same as the building. Eventually both would be replaced by a newer model.
As Dalton moved past, he waved Hannibal behind him into his office. Hannibal followed, closing the door behind himself. Dalton got comfortable in his oversized wooden chair and lit a cigarette. The chair opposite the desk was only inches from it, so Hannibal turned it sideways and sat.
“Sorry it took me so long to get here,” Hannibal said.
“No big thing,” Dalton answered. “I’ll be here until eight tonight. You, on the other hand, don’t have to be. Your lawyer friend’s got the remains. I got nothing. Why don’t we do this the easy way and you tell me who the bones were.”
Refreshing, Hannibal thought. A man who knows how to come to the point. “Deceased is probably the last resident of the first floor apartment. He disappeared about eighteen years ago. His name was Bobby Newton.” Not exactly the truth, but not really a lie either. It was certainly the name on the lease.
“Could be,” Dalton said, leaning forward to support himself on his elbows. “Our people said a quick test put those bones at close to twenty years old. That was a pretty rough area back then.”
“Then?” Hannibal remarked without thinking. Dalton looked up and nailed him with a hard look, right through his dark glasses.
“Back then, a lot of people come up missing in Edmundson Village,” Dalton said in a low, distant voice. “I was just a patrolman then, new, full of piss and vinegar. Every night there was shootings. Stabbings. Fights. Usually over drugs, or gambling, or women. Mostly in that little circle, five or six blocks around Killer’s.”
Dalton lapsed into silence, staring through Hannibal like a mechanical fortune teller after your quarter runs out. Hannibal did not really want to put in another coin, but it was outside his nature to leave a story unfinished. He had to start the machine again, and he knew the price was to ask a question.
“Okay, so what was Killer’s?”
“Just a bar a couple blocks from where you found the bones.” Dalton shrugged and took a deep drag from his cigarette. The smoke burned Hannibal’s nose and added to the bar room atmosphere in the small office. Then Dalton continued his story in a smoke roughened voice.
“The place was run by Vernon Nilson, a guy everybody called Killer. Like in lady killer, you know, but by the time I met him he’d already earned the nickname for real. Yep, Killer Nilson. Big nigger, must have been six-four or five. He disappeared too.” Then Dalton gave a crooked smile. “Maybe that’s old Killer you dug up. More likely he killed the John Doe and faded out.”
Something tickled the back of Hannibal’s mind. It seemed this case was staying within a narrow geographic area. Both cases, actually, the one he was paid to do and the other. He decided to gamble again.
“You ever hear of a tough guy named Pat Louis?”
Dalton’s head whipped around in a double take. “You know Louis? He used to hang out with Nilson. In fact, I busted them together. That was a lot of years ago,” he said. Did he miss those days? Did he imagine himself one of the latter day untouchables?
Then Dalton sat up and spun to his side, as if he suddenly remembered the reason for Hannibal’s visit. He drew a typewriter table toward himself and ran a piece of paper into an ancient IBM Selectric. The typewriter let out a loud click when he turned it on.
“Anyway, I need a statement. Just tell me everything that happened after you got to the building your missing person used to live in. Now, first your full name.” Dalton typed quickly with two fingers. He turned the paper up to the address line, but stopped there. “What the hell kind of a name is Hannibal anyway?”
“My folks wanted to name me after a great conquering general,” Hannibal grinned. “Alexander was too common, I guess, and Germans don’t think much of Napoleon.”
“Germans?”
“Long story,” Hannibal said.
When Hannibal stepped into the sun, he found Ray in the limo, dozing behind the wheel. He managed to open the door and climb into the back seat without waking his driver. After pulling off his shoes, he stretched his legs out on the white leather and pulled out his flip phone. After getting through a dispatcher, he managed to get Orson Rissik on the phone.
“Hey, I’m glad you called. We found your car.”
“Alleluia!” Hannibal snapped a fist into the air. “Where was it?”
“He ran it out of gas on a side street in Pennsylvania. I’ve already had an officer drive it back here.”
“You’re a hell of a cop, Orson,” Hannibal said. “What about the killer’s own car?”
“Stolen too,” Rissik said. There was a funny pause which made Hannibal tune in to the phone more closely. “In fact, he stole it from a guy in Baltimore,” Rissik continued. “Funny thing, the car was never reported stolen until about half an hour before Paton’s murder.”
“I got something funnier for you,” Hannibal said. “And I want you to remember I was cooperative with you, sharing what I got.”
Hannibal could feel Rissik’s smile over the phone. “Understood.”
Sure was a pleasure dealing with a pro. “Ike Paton was really a hard case named Patrick Louis. Got a record up here and he was in the rackets.”
“Thanks,” Rissik said, and Hannibal could imagine him examining his own cards to see if he had anything Hannibal might want. When he finally spoke, he said, “You know, I was thinking you might like to meet the shooter again.”
“You got that right.”
“Well, I was going to ask the Baltimore cops to check out the owner of the getaway vehicle,” Rissik said, “but our interagency cooperation isn’t always what it could be, you know. Would you consider doing a Virginia cop a favor?”
Hannibal’s grin broadened as he swung his feet back to the floor. “I think I’ve got a couple of hours to kill. If it would help you out, Detective Rissik, I’d be happy to check out the car’s owner for you. Just give me his name and address.”
Hannibal hit the disconnect button and immediately punched in another number from memory. He had called the offices of Nieswand and Balor earlier but he was not smiling this much when he spoke to the receptionist before. His heart always lifted when he asked to speak to Cynthia Santiago. He was humming an old soul ballad when she came on the line.
“Hello.”
“Cindy, it’s me,” he said. “How’s the day going?”
“I’m pretty busy right now.”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, how about breaking away from all that. The cops tell me they found my car and it’s drivable. Why don’t you bring it up here and we can have dinner somewhere and you can help out on this case.”
Long pause. “Why?”
“Why?” Hannibal was shaken. Did he forget a birthday or something? “Because I don’t get to see enough of you when I’m on a case. And because I’ve got to ask somebody some questions and it would help to have an attorney on the scene.” After a few seconds of silence, he said, “Cindy? You there?”
“Yes. Will this help Kyle?”
“I think it will help determine what happened to his father,” Hannibal said. “If the DNA tests come out positive, I don’t want to have to tell him his dad’s dead but nobody knows how or why.”
“Okay,” she said as if agreeing to scrub the floor. “Tell me where we can meet.”
Hannibal had ridden around Baltimore enough to feel he was overdue finding the goo
d side of town. As they approached Wallace Lerner’s home, he could see this was not it. Considering the worldwide reputation earned by Johns Hopkins University, he hoped the area around it would be ivy covered and tree laden. No such luck. The neighborhood surrounding the University was better than Edmundson Village, but not by a whole lot. Still, Lerner owned the car Hannibal’s skull had been slammed into, so this was where Hannibal had to go. Lerner lived in a large apartment building which, Hannibal guessed, probably housed quite a few students as well. As Ray pulled to the curb, Hannibal leaned over the seat.
“Need to ask you to wait outside on this one, buddy. If the killer’s in there and I flush him out, I’ll call you on the car phone. I might need you to follow him.”
“No sweat, Chico,” Ray said. “I ain’t exactly inconspicuous in this thing, but who’d expect a limousine to be following them, eh?”
On his way up the stairs, Hannibal felt a brief twinge of guilt. Was he letting Kyle down by taking this detour away from the search for the boy’s father? He had to admit he was on a purely selfish mission at the time, chasing a murderer who made the mistake of pounding his own skull, frightening his woman and stealing his car.
Still, most of the normal world would be going home from work in an hour or so. And he had already accomplished a lot. He had certainly earned his fee for this day. Nieswand told him a definitive DNA match on the skeletal remains would take about twenty-four hours. Until then, he had no way of knowing if his job was already done.
The hallway was narrow and dark and filled with a vague scent of mildew and unwashed bodies. At the right door, he positioned himself so his face would show through the tiny security viewer before he knocked.
“Yeah, it’s open.” The woman’s voice carried a sleepy Jamaican twang. Hannibal turned the knob and stepped into a small, narrow apartment decorated in early eclectic. The coffee table displayed racing forms instead of books or newspapers. The old Formica table by the kitchenette was half covered by cans and boxes of groceries no one bothered to put away. A pair of cows held salt and pepper.
“Well, come on,” the woman called from the bedroom. The same linoleum covered the entire apartment floor and Hannibal crossed it to the half open bedroom door. The woman on the unmade bed never looked up from her soap opera.
“You looking for Wally?”
“Yes, I need to see him,” Hannibal said.
“Well, he ain’t here.” She stared into a thirteen inch screen on a rolling cart in the corner. She had the type of body women usually pay for these days. Breasts too round to be real almost spilled out the top of the man’s shirt she wore. Perfect bronze legs grew out the bottom of the shirt, with no evidence for or against her having anything on underneath. Hannibal figured her for late thirties with a pretty but calculating face and hair too light for auburn but definitely reddish.
“Guess I’ll wait.” Hannibal’s words made her look up. Her smile grew slowly, sincere but crooked.
“Well, hi,” she said, sitting up. “I’m Ginger.” Yes, Hannibal thought, that was the color.
“Hannibal Jones,” he said with a nod. “I’ll just have a seat on the couch.”
Ginger Lerner stood up, thrusting her chest forward as if she had no choice, and swung toward the bedroom door with the exaggerated sway of a Las Vegas showgirl. “You don’t look like any of Wally’s other friends. Want a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, she brushed past Hannibal to the kitchenette, where she expertly mixed two gin and tonics.
“I don’t know him well,” Hannibal said. “I had something I needed to store in a safe place, so…”
“You gave it to Wally?” She gave a melodic laugh and carried the drinks to the table. By sitting behind one, she left Hannibal no reasonable choice but to join her.
“Actually, I put it in the trunk of his car,” he said, dropping into the kitchen chair. “I don’t really need Wally, just need to know where the car is.”
Ginger sipped her drink and sighed provocatively. “That might be tough. Take them cheaters off for a minute, would you?”
“Why tough?” he asked, sliding his glasses off. Ginger made a sound like she was tasting something delicious and the tip of her tongue slowly cleaned her top lip and disappeared. “Why tough?” Hannibal repeated.
“Because Mister Rocket Science loaned the car to his brother Sloan.”
“Bad idea?” Hannibal asked.
“Mister, his name’s Sloan but most folks call him Slo. Slo Lerner, get it?” She swallowed half her drink, exposing her long neck and most of the rounded treasures beneath it.
“And where can I find Slo?” he asked.
“Who the hell knows?” Her feet found his and started playing games. “He’s got a place in town but he’s never there. Sure wish we weren’t here. We only moved down here from Jersey on account of his boss sent him to work this territory. Wally’s too damn loyal.” Obviously Wally’s wife had no such problem. She leaned in close, using eye contact and a hand on his arm to make sure Hannibal did not miss her message.
“In that case, when’s Wally due back?”
“Who knows,” she said, but her tone of voice said “who cares” and her breathing deepened as if she had just thought of something quite exhilarating. She stood up, stepped forward and slid one leg between Hannibal’s as far as the chair would allow. “You know,” she said, placing a hand gently on his neck, “I don’t work much these days, but I could be persuaded to make an exception in your case.”
The door swung open and all the tenderness drained out of her, but the fire remained.
“Sorry, Ginger,” the man at the door said. “You didn’t tell me you were having company today.”
“Just get the hell out of here, Wally,” she snapped, the way an older sister might talk to an intruding baby brother.
“Wait right there, Wally,” Hannibal said, standing and moving toward the door in one fluid motion. Wally tried to close the door with himself on the outside, but he was too slow. Hannibal had his sleeve before the door hit his arm. With a hard yank, he pulled Wally Lerner back through the door and flung him onto the imitation leather couch.
Lerner was a little black mouse with marbles for eyes which darted left and right, but never lingered anywhere for long. He was obviously scared, which made Hannibal happy. Frightened people told you what you needed to know.
“Where’s your brother, Wally?” Hannibal asked, pushing his glasses back into place. “I want Sloan and I want him now. He’s in a lot of trouble and so are you if you don’t talk to me.”
“Oh God. What’s that idiot done now?” Lerner tried to shove himself into a corner of the couch.
“He murdered a man,” Hannibal said, using his Treasury Agent voice. Secret Service agents, like FBI agents and U.S. Marshals, learn a speech pattern calculated to make uncooperative people cooperate. When he turned in his badge, Hannibal did not leave anything he learned in federal service behind. “He murdered a man and he used your car to do it. And I know he had it with your permission. If I don’t find him in a hell of a hurry, all the shit falls on you.”
“Oh God, you got to believe me,” Wally whined. “I don’t know where Slo is. I been out looking for him all day. Nobody’s seen him. I figured he must have gone back up north. You got to tell Zack I got no idea where he went or what he did.”
Ginger stalked forward, her anger still focused down on Wally who squirmed on the couch like a moth pinned to a board. “You idiot, look at him. He don’t work for Zack. This guy’s got too much class to be working for Zack King.” Then she turned to Hannibal. “You’re not a cop are you, handsome?”
“No, not a cop,” Hannibal said. “All a cop could do is ask questions. I, on the other hand, will beat your little husband’s ass if he don’t tell me what I want to know.”
“Jesus, mister, I’m telling you,” Wally actually put his hands together, as if praying to Hannibal for understanding. “I can’t find him. If he did somebody, he did it for Zack. He’s probably back
up in Jersey right now, so Zack can hide him out until the heat dies down.”
-14-
Coffee shops like the one Hannibal sat in spring up around colleges and universities like dandelions on a well-fed lawn. He wondered why the competition did not kill more of them off. He was lucky to find one which at least served a decent cup of coffee. It was hot and strong and it relaxed him.
At least until Cindy walked in. As expected, she still wore her business suit: a navy skirt a bit shy of knee length, a white blouse under a conservative jacket, and heels. He did not expect her to still be wearing her business smile. A raincoat hung from her arm like a lifeless body. She walked directly to his table but did not sit down. In fact, she hardly looked down.
“Shall we go?” She handed him the car key and turned toward the door in one smooth motion. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Staking out a suspect until the cops get there,” he said, standing as quickly as he could. “I took a cab here.” He hastened to catch up but did not come even with her until they reached his car. Then his attention was diverted.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, walking slowly around his car in disbelief. The lower half of the Volvo looked like the car was used in a four wheel drive mud bogging contest. Its front left quarter panel was creased almost its entire length. The paint was scratched in five or six places. And the left outside rear view mirror was missing.
Then he opened the door. His white leather upholstery was caked with mud, with dried blood added in the front. The carpets were destroyed. Coffee rings formed the Olympics symbol on his dashboard.
“Can I get in?” Cindy asked. He pushed the button unlocking the other doors, then watched as she spread her coat on the seat to protect her clothes and sat down. Hannibal left his door standing open and went to the trunk. Raised in Germany, he carried a warning triangle, a first aid kit, flares and a flashlight along with his spare tire. From his supplies he plucked his emergency blanket which he carried to the front and spread over his seat. Then he dropped heavily into the seat, slamming his door much harder than necessary. Having his car invaded and mistreated this way made him feel violated. But as he pushed the key into the ignition, he realized he was letting his frustration and anger about an automobile cover up a potentially more serious problem. He leaned back, took a deep breath, and focused his mind.
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