At the other end, Nieswand seemed to perk up a little. “Larry Lippincott’s staying on it all night. Did you know the army has a DNA testing lab right near here? The Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory is right up in Rockville, Maryland. Larry’s up there working with them. Says he’ll have a definitive answer by morning, but he’s pretty sure now he’s got an exact match. Not only does it look like it’s Jacob, but it shows the genetic tendency to cancer, he says.”
“If it is, it fits what I got from other witnesses,” Hannibal confirmed. “Looks like Jacob was a mob killing, for his father’s coins most likely. It could be a friend of Paton’s did it too. Poetic justice maybe.” He turned to Cindy. “It doesn’t help Kyle, but I guess my job’s over.” She gave him a smile and covered his hand on the wheel.
“I don’t know,” Nieswand said. “You seem to have found Jacob, but it’s not good news for the family. You said something about a girl.”
“Angela Briggs,” Hannibal said. “Claims to be Jacob’s illegitimate daughter.”
“Jacob’s death will be a crushing blow to Harlan,” Nieswand said, “but maybe less so if this girl turns out to be his long lost granddaughter. And that would hold out hope for a transplant for Kyle.”
“Mister Nieswand, I don’t generally believe in coincidences,” Hannibal said. “Now, I’ll admit I interviewed witnesses who claimed Angela looked very much like Jacob, and I can see a resemblance to the photo I have, but her appearance is just too convenient for my tastes. I don’t want to raise anybody’s hopes.”
Broken lines rushed past while Nieswand considered Hannibal’s words. When he spoke, it was with the first genuine emotion Hannibal had heard in his voice. “I think we have to know. Please stay on the job a bit longer. Go with me to Baltimore tomorrow, introduce me to your sources and then to the girl. If there’s even a chance…”
After a moment of quiet, Hannibal said, “I understand. All right, I’ll stay with it until we have the truth.”
After exchanging goodnights with Nieswand, Hannibal pushed the button to hang up. Cindy sat straighter and turned in her bucket seat to face him.
“He’s a good man and a good lawyer, Hannibal. My mentor more than anyone else. He cares. But you’re not optimistic, are you?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I want to believe, because I want to think I can help Kyle, but I suppose I’m too cynical.”
“No, just realistic. Anyway, I think you’d better call Sarge now.”
“Yeah. Let him know I’m on the way in,” Hannibal said, reaching again for the telephone controls.
“No, to tell him you won’t be back tonight. You’re not spending another night in that apartment as long as that woman is there.”
Hannibal smiled and stretched his right hand toward her thigh. “For a while there I wasn’t sure…”
Cindy intercepted his hand, holding it tightly on the seat between them. “Don’t jump to any conclusions. That doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen tonight. For now, we need to talk some, and then you sleep in the guest room. We can maybe work on making it right between us this way. I know we can’t if you go back there to her. So you stay with me if it’s worth it and take your chances.”
Hannibal nodded and squeezed her hand back. “Your place,” he said. “No promises. No rules.”
“You understand?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I understand enough to know that going home tonight could push you away. And I won’t risk losing you.”
Cindy released his hand to rub his arm lightly. In the dark, he could see the ghost of a smile starting on her face. “That’s a good start,” she said.
-16-
WEDNESDAY
The little examining room felt even smaller with three men in it. The room smelled of antiseptic, as all doctor’s offices do, but somehow with an extra strength, which stung Hannibal’s nose. He stood to the side, in his usual black suit, gloves and sunglasses, watching the two men. He was fascinated by their reactions to each other.
The stoop-shouldered Doctor Cummings invited them in pleasantly enough, but his discomfort with Nieswand was palpable. The lawyer was nattily attired in a custom-made gray pinstriped suit, his toupee almost undetectable. Hannibal was impressed by his presentation, his style, his ability to communicate with and relate to his audience. However, the old family doctor was unimpressed. Hannibal was not sure if the years had given him a distrust of lawyers, Jews, or men with money. In any case, while he listened politely to the story, it was clear he considered Nieswand the enemy.
“So you see, the man you knew as Bobby Newton was, in reality, Jacob Mortimer,” Nieswand said. “And we have definite proof, thanks to DNA analysis, of that man’s death. Jacob Mortimer was the only child of a very wealthy man. Any progeny of his would be heirs in line for part of the sizable Mortimer estate. Under those circumstances, you can surely see why we must be very careful to verify such a person’s identity.”
Cummings glanced around as if he was looking for a good place to spit. When his eyes finally lit on Nieswand they narrowed to slits only wide enough for daggers to fly out of them. “You smile too much. I like him better,” he said, jerking a thumb toward Hannibal. “He only smiles when something’s funny. I can tell you I delivered Angela Newton eighteen or so years ago. She came here to see me because she found my name on her birth certificate. But all I can verify for sure is this girl’s a sweet kid and if she isn’t heir to a fortune, she ought to be. Any family would be better off with her than without her.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Nieswand said, “but I’ll have to talk to her myself before I introduce her to the family I’m sworn to serve. I’d hate to embarrass her by walking in on her at her place of work, but so far, it’s the only place we know to find her.”
Cummings looked at Nieswand for a moment before turning to Hannibal. “Who talks to her?”
“Just the two of us,” Hannibal said. “No crowd, no police, no hassles. I’ll guarantee it.”
After another long pause, Cummings pulled an address book from a cabinet drawer and scribbled on a pad. Another pause, a long sigh, and he tore the top sheet off the pad, handing it to Nieswand.
“I don’t want her rousted at her job,” Cummings snarled. “Here’s her address. She doesn’t start work until ten, so if you hurry you can catch her at home. But if there’s any trouble,” Cummings pushed his dried features and cloud of white hair into Nieswand’s face, “you’ll answer to me, shyster.”
Angela’s apartment was not very far from, nor any nicer than, Wally Lerner’s. Nieswand was nervous about leaving his Mercedes parked behind Hannibal’s Volvo on the street.
Nieswand continued his complaints inside. They faced a three-story walkup in a stairway someone had used for a bathroom not too long ago. The hallway leading to Angela’s apartment was claustrophobic, with bare bulbs casting harsh shadows around it. They passed one young man on the way whose eyes advertised his drug use. And when they reached the right door, someone had spray painted a crude word across it. Hannibal knocked, then stood back as far as the hall allowed. There was no answering call asking who it was, but he knew he was being inspected through the tiny viewport such doors have. Then he heard two locks disengage and the door swung inward to the length of a small chain. Angela’s face peeked through, and Nieswand whistled almost too low to be heard. Her eyes went from him to Hannibal. She neither smiled nor frowned, looking way too world-weary for her age.
“You, I know,” she told Hannibal. “Him, I don’t.”
“I’m Gabe Nieswand,” the lawyer said, turning on his courtroom smile. “I represent the family of the man who might be your father. They’re very interested in clearing up all this uncertainty, as I’m sure you are as well. We’d like to talk to you for a minute. May we come in?”
The face disappeared. The door closed. The chain rattled. Then the door swung open. Angela was walking back into the studio apartment before either of her guests moved. Hannibal entered fi
rst, taking the room in quickly before waving Nieswand in behind him. The living room hardly looked lived in. True, the sofa and chair were worn, the table old, the walls dingy from going years unpainted. But the furniture and even the worn linoleum were clean. There was no clutter, no mess. No curtains at the windows. No pictures hanging. No knick knacks, books or magazines. No television.
“So talk,” Angela said. She was taking clothes from a laundry basket on the table at the kitchenette end of the room, folding each piece with machine-like precision and placing them neatly on the table. Her clothes were stacked by category, socks here, underwear there, skirts, blouses, pants, all neatly folded.
“You told Doctor Cummings you were Bobby Newton’s daughter,” Nieswand said, standing at the other end of the table. “How does your name come to be Briggs.”
“My last foster father,” she said, never looking up from her careful folding. “All I can remember of childhood is a series of foster parents. Then, in junior high, I got picked up by Samuel Briggs. He was a sweet old man. I didn’t like school but he turned me on to books and, you know, learning because you want to know.”
“And this was in?”
Angela glared at Nieswand, bristling at his apparent skepticism. “We lived in Corpus Christi. I went through high school there. Graduated third in my class.”
Near the door, Hannibal watched the hard look on Nieswand’s face. A few questions had turned into an interrogation. Nieswand’s face was cold and Hannibal suddenly realized this man could do anything he thought necessary. He must be vicious in court, Hannibal thought.
“He was obviously a kind, loving man,” Nieswand said, stepping a bit closer. “I’ll bet he considered you his own daughter in every way. I’m rather surprised he told you about your birth parents.”
“Mister Briggs died right after I graduated,” she said. There was no emotion in the statement, but the empty space it left implied the pain and sorrow had simply dried up. “He didn’t leave much money, but he did leave me a note and a birth certificate. He thought I should know who I really was. I’m still looking.”
She turned empty eyes toward Nieswand and he smiled in return. But Hannibal knew it was not the genuine smile he had seen before. This was his game face. So his next words surprised Hannibal.
“Angela, Bobby Newton was a stage name for Jacob Mortimer. The Mortimer family has been searching for Jacob for years without success. Now, you might be their only link to him. Would you be willing to come with me to meet them?”
Life sprang into Angela’s face, and she put a tee shirt down without folding it. “Meet them? If they might be related to me, of course I’ll meet them. When can we go?”
Angela grabbed a small purse and headed toward her door. As Hannibal turned to open it for her, his phone rang. He answered it on the way down the hall.
“Jones? This is Dalton. Got some news for you.”
He sounded tired to Hannibal, but then he always sounded tired. “You going to tell me where Wally Lerner went when he finally left his place?”
“I’m going to tell you my guys screwed up,” Dalton said. “Somehow, they lost him. He got out without them seeing him. I’m afraid he’s gone.”
“Damn. Well, will you keep the place under surveillance? Never know. He might be stupid enough to come back.”
Hannibal reached the bottom of the stairs and went out into the sunlight, but behind his lenses it was still dark. He barely heard Nieswand saying good-bye as he and Angela climbed into the Mercedes. He did notice an annoying lack of surprise on Angela’s face. When he was her age, boarding a Mercedes would have been an electric experience. But he said nothing, because his mind was on other matters.
“Dalton, do you have any leads on Lerner? You know his brother’s the prime suspect in a Virginia murder now. Aside from that, I owe him a beating, and I owe him for taking my car and driving it like a demolition derby.”
“Look, son, I’m doing what I can,” Dalton said, “but I don’t give a rat’s ass about your personal revenge. I’ll chase him like any other murder suspect and no snot-nosed P.I. is going to tell me how. Hey. What’s that noise?”
Damn! “Got another call coming in,” Hannibal said. “I’ll talk to you later.” He cut the connection with Dalton while getting into his own car. Frustrated, he let his forehead drop to the steering wheel. “What the hell else can happen?” he asked aloud, then answered the phone.
“Hannibal, this is Sarge.”
“Sarge, how’s it going?” Hannibal asked, turning the key to nudge the Volvo’s smooth engine into life. “Is our guest getting restless?”
“Not exactly, Hannibal.” The tension in Sarge’s voice drew Hannibal’s close attention. “We had a little action here.”
“Floyd’s boys come back to play?” Hannibal asked.
“Not like the last time, no, but I think it was them. This was a drive by. Five nine millimeter bullets through your front windows.”
-17-
Two matched pairs of BF Goodrich Comp T/A tires locked up and screeched to a halt in front of Hannibal’s building. His car vibrated when he slammed the door. He stared for a few seconds at his front office windows, largely missing. He stared up and down the street, looking for a good target for his anger before crossing the sidewalk. His shoes tapped up the outside steps like machine gun fire. He burst into his office, to find Sarge in the visitor’s chair pointing a shotgun his way.
“It’s good to see you’re all right, man,” Hannibal said. Sarge nodded. Then rapid-fire footsteps approached from the back of the building. Hannibal could smell Jewel’s fear before she came into view. She threw her arms around him, less like a lover than like a drowning man clutching a life preserver.
“Oh, thank God you’re here. God, there were bullets everywhere and I was sure I was dead. He’s crazy. He’s crazy and he wants to kill me and I know only you can save me. I’ll pay anything, anything.”
Hannibal kept his eyes on Sarge while he pulled Jewel’s arms down from his neck. “Tell me what happened.”
“Not much to tell,” Sarge replied. “I’m sitting in here, Jewel’s at the desk, starting to get the hang of surfing the net, you know. Black Cadillac cruises by, three or four brothers inside. An arm comes out the window and fires five shots at us. I kind of land on top of Jewel, all the shots go over our heads. Mother Washington was in the kitchen but you know the Lord looks out for her. When I gets up, the car’s gone. I sent Mother Washington on home. Only casualty’s your machine.”
As Sarge talked, Hannibal’s breathing deepened and his lips curled in, revealing his teeth. He walked slowly behind his desk. Window glass still littered the floor five feet out from the windows. Sunlight sent painful reflections up into Hannibal’s eyes. His computer’s monitor was now a hollow box and one of the bullets had smashed his keyboard.
“Okay,” he said, finally looking at Jewel, “where does the son of a bitch live?”
The man on the stoop was obviously a guard, broad and squat, his bald head shining like a bowling ball. Floyd’s chosen guard type. He was more alert than the men Hannibal met before, but by the time he figured out how to react, Hannibal figured it would be too late. He set his emergency brake, got out of the car, and stalked directly toward the man. Momentarily flustered, the guard braced himself like a linebacker, his right hand moving slowly toward his waistband. Hannibal stopped three steps from the top of the stoop.
“You know who I am?”
The guard nodded, pulled a stiletto and stepped back two paces. Aside from jeans and sneakers, he wore a black tee shirt and a ball cap with the letter X on the front.
“You really want those to be the clothes they bury you in?” Hannibal asked. “Put that down before you piss me off.”
“You get out of here, Jones,” the muscular man said. “You supposed to be tough but your rep don’t mean shit to me.”
Hannibal nodded. Another mouth-powered idiot, probably on drugs. He turned his head, as if checking on something over
his right shoulder. Then his left hand whipped past the guard and his right foot spun around him. His right heel whipped back, around and up, cracking like a flail against the guard’s right elbow. With a strangled cry, the guard dropped the knife and fell to his knees. Hannibal stepped past him into the building.
Inside, the smell of musk and malt liquor hung in the air. Hannibal burst up the narrow stairs to the second floor where he knew his target was busy gambling, or drinking, or doing drugs or getting laid. Not that it mattered. Whatever he was doing, he was about to be interrupted.
Bass-heavy music rattled Floyd’s door on its way out. Idiots. A platoon of police could storm the hall unanticipated. If they cared to. Disgusted, Hannibal drew his Sig Sauer P229 from its holster, took a deep breath and executed a front stamp kick. Floyd had installed a good lock, but the door sill was thin wood which splintered easily. The door flew open and slammed against the wall on the inside.
“Just don’t,” Hannibal said as he stepped in. Through his dark lenses and a thick cloud of marijuana smoke, he saw Floyd playing cards with his two lieutenants and three fairly attractive girls. The girls all appeared to be on the losing end of a game of strip poker. He had seldom seen such an impressive collection of dilated pupils.
He was surprised, first, that all the furniture, and even the stereo, were high-end items, the most expensive things available, but poorly cared for. His second surprise was Lawrence’s ability to react, almost like a professional. He dropped the joint from his left hand and the cards from his right and produced a gun from his waistband in a fraction of a second. Hannibal sent a forty caliber hollow point slug through his right biceps. The impact drove Lawrence to the floor. The women screamed and slapped hands over their ears against the gun blast. The raised arms made three pairs of nipples jump humorously.
“Girls out, men freeze,” Hannibal snapped. The women scrambled and stumbled through the door without a backward glance.
“You a dead man,” Floyd muttered, the scar over his left eye flaring red.
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