“They’re the bad boys who put the girl in,” Rissik said, finishing Hannibal’s sentence. Both men were smiling now. “And that probably means Zack King. So what do you want, Mister Jones?”
Hannibal leaned back and put his right ankle on his left knee. “Well, I thought you could put some men on watching the Mortimer house. If the bad guys come sniffing around to see how the girl’s doing, you can nab them. And if anybody tries any violence, your boys can be on the spot to stop it. Now, how do you know about Zack King?”
“I do my homework,” Rissik said. “Ike Paton used to be Pat Louis. I take it you know that already. You probably also know he was working for King a year ago in Atlantic City. Did you know he was in Killer Nilson’s gang years ago? It was Nilson’s bunch who called themselves Omega and got those tattoos.”
“Sure,” Hannibal vamped. “Sloan Lerner was in that old gang with him. Maybe they set this scam up a long time ago, eh? With Louis, as Paton, as the inside man. Then maybe Louis had second thoughts.”
Rissik nodded and waved a finger at Hannibal. “Sure. That makes a dandy motive for murder. And it raises the possibility one of them might come back to check on the girl. Okay, I’ll have the house watched.”
Hannibal emptied his cup. “Just wish I knew where they’re hiding now.”
“Well, I’ve got warrants out in Baltimore and New Jersey, but I figure it’s too hot in those places for these guys,” Rissik said, heading for his coffee pot. “I sent e-mail to the boys in Texas too.”
“Texas?” Hannibal sat up very straight. “Why?” Rissik made an odd face and turned to fill his cup again. When he returned to his desk he stared down into the cup. Hannibal said “Come on chief. You owe me.”
Rissik seemed to mull it over before deciding to open up. “Louis’ last bust was in Texas,” he said. “They caught him driving in from Mexico with a truck load of illegals. Most of his cargo got away but he went up. That was four years ago, and he only did a couple of years. But he might have had something going on down there. What do you think?”
Hannibal froze while his mind processed this new information. This case was littered with thin connections that looked important, and now it had one more. Patrick Louis, AKA Ike Paton was coming across the Mexican border into Texas four years ago, which was when Angela Briggs, AKA Angela Mortimer, first appeared in Corpus Christi.
-23-
Sometimes, Hannibal wished he could simply walk away. He drove back to Washington in a fog of uncertainty. The case seemed as twisted and dirty as the narrow streets he was driving on. The Rolling Stones in the CD player could not blast the confusion out of his brain. He wished he had not agreed to prove Angela Mortimer a fake. He wished he did not care who killed Pat Louis, or why.
But he did care, and he had agreed. And while he had no interest in following the trail of these two dovetailed mysteries to the Mexican border, he figured he knew where he might get a lead closer to home. Floyd had spoken to Hannibal once under threat of violence. He might be more informative about the New Jersey mob with cash as his incentive. But Hannibal began to have doubts when he pulled up across the street from Floyd’s building.
Hannibal did not believe in extra sensory perception. But he knew experienced policemen and bodyguards developed a clear picture of how things should be, and became sensitive to situations when things were not. He thought all the senses must be involved, which explained why various people sometimes said they felt, smelled, or sensed trouble.
The first thing he noticed was the absence of a guard on the stoop. Of course, it might be the case whenever Floyd was away from home, but it did not feel right. Then there was the green Ford Explorer parked in front of the door. It might not have anything to do with Floyd, but Hannibal sensed it did. And the outside door to the building was an inch or two ajar. No one who lived in this neighborhood would purposely leave the door open. It might mean no more than the presence of a careless child. But Hannibal smelled trouble.
The sound of breaking glass drew his attention to the second floor. Bits of a window flashed and glittered as they fell slowly toward the ground. He rolled his window down, trying to stare into the now open portal to Floyd’s apartment. He heard the unmistakable thump of a rubber coated baton against human flesh repeated five times. Then he saw Floyd himself. He emerged from the window head first, chasing his own blood curdling scream. Catapulted into space, he seemed to be trying to swim to the other side of the street. In fact, he covered the distance to the gutter in front of his building. He neither flashed nor glittered. Nor did he fall slowly. His head hit the street first, and he was surely dead by the time his feet bounced off the concrete. Not much splatter, but Hannibal’s stomach lurched.
In the next ten seconds, three onlookers wandered slowly toward the body, unable to resist the lure of death, but not wanting to get too close. Then the door at the top of the stoop slammed open and three huge men ran down the stairs much more quickly than he would have expected. One jumped behind the wheel of the Explorer and fired up the engine while the other two hopped into the back seat. The license plates were caked with mud, making them unreadable. The vehicle laid rubber as it darted away. Hannibal watched it disappear in his rear view mirror.
Hannibal may have been inclined to help even scum like Floyd. But Floyd was beyond help now. And Hannibal knew it was pointless to mess with those three unless he was prepared to do anything to win. This was surely Zack King’s revenge for talking to Hannibal. How he knew it was Floyd who led Hannibal to him was a mystery not worth puzzling over. Mobsters had ways of learning things. However he found out, King took action to make sure it would not happen again.
Hannibal swallowed his frustration, slipped his car into gear and pulled away. Zack had sealed the only leak Hannibal knew about. The Jersey mob was a closed book to him again. It might have to do with keeping him away from the secret behind Angela’s appearance. Or it could be Zack’s way of telling people not to talk about him.
A cloud bank moved in, making Hannibal’s neighborhood seem darker than usual. The few trees on the block were sickly and weak. Hardly anything thrived in this environment and he wondered for the millionth time why he chose to stay here. He shuffled into his hallway, feeling defeated. He closed the door behind himself, turned left toward his apartment, and froze. New energy seemed to flood into him as he realized he did have another option. He sprinted to his office, shoving the door open.
“Whoa!” Hannibal froze, his heart missing one beat then bursting into triplets. Sarge’s finger spasmed on the shotgun’s trigger, barely avoiding dropping the hammer. They stared at each other for a minute, then Sarge let out a long breath and lowered the barrel.
“Man, you could get yourself killed like that,” Sarge said. “It’s been a long, hairy week.”
“Yeah, and you’ve done a great job,” Hannibal said, pulling his sports coat off, “but now it’s over. Jewel’s in no more danger.”
A face afraid to show hope peeked out from the next room. “Are you sure?” Jewel asked in her high pitched voice. “How can you be sure?”
“Because somebody a lot bigger than Floyd just tossed him out of his apartment,” Hannibal said, plopping into the chair behind his desk. “In fact, they were in such a hurry, they had him take the elevator down.”
“But his building doesn’t have an…oh.” Hannibal saw the light come on in Jewel’s head, and heard Sarge chuckling. Then Jewel’s expression changed, as she realized all that this news implied.
“He’s gone,” she said slowly, smiling at the sky outside Hannibal’s office windows. “He’s gone. I’m free.” Then she rushed across the floor to fling her arms around Hannibal’s neck. “How can I ever thank you enough for what you’ve done?”
“Well, there is my fee,” Hannibal answered, easing out of her embrace and leading her to his visitor’s chair. “But you can also help me with this case I’m working on. Floyd told me you were working in Atlantic City when he found you. What do you know about Zack K
ing?”
Jewel looked at the ceiling and rubbed the back of her head, which apparently was how she engaged the memory of her internal computer. “Isn’t that the name of a promoter in Atlantic City?”
“You’ve never met him?”
“Not that I knew,” Jewel said
Hannibal walked slowly around her. “How about Wally Lerner, or his brother Sloan?”
Jewel swiveled in her chair, trying to keep Hannibal in view. “Never heard of them guys, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, then how about Ike Paton?”
She shook her head left to right. “Sorry.”
Hannibal’s frustration was mounting. He leaned toward her, his hands on the arms of her chair. “You might have known him as Pat Louis. Big black guy, tattoo of the Greek letter omega on his hand.”
“Don’t know that name either,” Jewel said. “And I don’t think I know anybody with a tattoo on their hand. Sorry.”
Hannibal turned and banged his desk. He hoped Floyd shared his knowledge of the underworld when he was drunk, or being intimate. But he could see Jewel had never gotten involved with the mob connections, in DC or New Jersey. She no more knew where the Lerners might hide than he did. He was sure the Lerner brothers held the secret to Angela’s scam, if it was a scam. But now he had no way to find them.
“How am I going to prove to Nieswand that the girl’s a fake?” he asked the desk.
“Nieswand?” Jewel asked in a shaky voice. “I know that name.”
Hannibal felt a jolt of electricity flash up his spine. It was too much to hope for, but the name was so uncommon he had to believe Jewel recognizing it was significant. He breathed deeply, trying to contain his optimism. Forcing a smile, trying not to intimidate the girl, he turned and leaned back against his desk.
“Jewel, are you sure you know that name from Atlantic City?”
“Of course,” she said with a nervous laugh. “You don’t forget a name like that.”
“True,” he said. “What was he doing up there?”
Jewel’s confidence fell, and she began rubbing her hands together. “He? Sorry, this was a girl.”
He knew he should not have gotten overconfident. He gritted his teeth against the frustration rising in his gut. “A girl.” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Jewel said. “Another hooker, I think. Abby Nieswand. I’m sure that was the name.”
“Abby?” Hannibal felt another jolt, strong enough to lift him from the desk. Resisting his drive to hug Jewel, he probed deeper. “What did she look like, this Abby Nieswand? And what was she doing there? When was this, anyway?”
Sarge stepped in and put a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Easy, man. This ain’t no interrogation. She’s trying to help.” Hannibal nodded to Sarge, then to Jewel to continue.
Jewel took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts, and went on. “This is like a year ago, maybe a little more. Not long before I left Jersey with Floyd. For a while she was in the hotel room next door to the one I used for,” Jewel hesitated for a second, “for business, you know. I don’t think she was doing street work. She had to be pushing forty pretty hard. Bottle blonde I think. I mean, she was a white girl, but her complexion was kind of dark for a blonde, you know? Dark eyes like Jewish girls have a lot of times. Pretty nice figure. And I guess the guy she was with liked real bright red nail polish.”
“The guy she was with,” Hannibal said, waving his hand to encourage her to continue.
“She stayed in that one room most of the time.” Jewel was again following Hannibal as he paced around her. “When she came out she would talk, and she seemed pretty nice. And pretty lonely. She was, what do you call that? A kept woman, right? The guy was black and pretty big, and he was paying the bills. But he only came back to the room to, you know, for service.” Hannibal’s face must have shown his distaste because she added, “That’s the way some guys are.” Hannibal nodded and pulled his jacket back on.
“Where to?” Sarge asked. “Trouble?”
“Not your kind,” Hannibal said, his voice hard. “I feel the need to talk to Mister Nieswand about his wife’s extracurricular activities. Who knows? Maybe she can give me a lead to the Jersey mob.”
When Hannibal pulled into Nieswand’s driveway, he was thinking about how much territory he had covered on what should have been a quiet Saturday. Lunch in a clinic meant to be a bright spot in the lowest of slum neighborhoods. Then to a police station in the supposedly higher class suburbs. Back to the inner city in time to see a pimp take a header. And now, back to Oakton, probably to see one of its upper class citizens hit rock bottom himself, figuratively if not literally.
Walking up the flagstone path toward the door of Nieswand’s huge brick colonial house, he considered how much its owner’s life had changed in the last week. Today, no trusted chauffeur would hassle visitors about where they parked. And for now, he had no drug dependent wife to hide away. Despite the brochures, Hannibal decided, sometimes gracious country living sucks.
The doorbell was a cheerful series of chimes. A minute later, Gabriel Nieswand pulled the door open. His hairpiece was slightly askew and he did not appear to care. He looked somehow unnatural in a knit golf shirt and Dockers. Bags under his eyes and the glass in his hand explained his condition better than a painted sign would.
“Hello. Didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Thought I should give you a final report concerning the case,” Hannibal said. For lawyers, keep it formal. It usually worked. “May I come in for a moment?”
“Glad to have the company,” Nieswand said, swinging the door fully open. Hannibal closed it behind himself and followed his host across the marble floor through his two story foyer, then down three steps into a plush den. Classical music was coming from somewhere. Nieswand dropped onto a love seat and motioned Hannibal to the overstuffed chair by the antique globe.
“Help yourself to a drink,” Nieswand said, waving his own glass toward the bar. “I’m having scotch myself. There’s quite a variety. I’ve probably sampled it all sometime in the past week.”
Pain leaked out of Nieswand’s eyes, and Hannibal felt a little guilty taking advantage of it. But his need to know overrode any other feelings he had. “No drinks for me, thanks. I’m driving. But how have you been? How’s your wife doing?”
Nieswand stared into his half empty glass as if it were a crystal ball. “I’m doing about as well as expected with my wife twenty miles away in a private hospital. She has a substance abuse problem, Mister Jones. Finding a corpse in our garage seems to have pushed her over the edge into actual schizophrenia. Her grip on reality has weakened, or so Lawrence Lippincott says.”
“I see.” Hannibal sat forward on the edge of his chair, hands folded, elbows on knees, the picture of sincere concern. “I think you’re bearing up well. You know, a friend of mine thinks he might have met your wife. Were you vacationing in Atlantic City last year, by any chance?”
Nieswand’s eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “We avoid places like that Mister Jones. Too much of a temptation, what with all the liquor and drugs about.”
“That’s funny,” Hannibal said, “my friend is sure he saw her up there. Described her well, and you do have a fairly uncommon name.”
“Last year?” Nieswand leaned back with his eyes closed. A closer inspection of his memory, Hannibal assumed. “My wife disappeared for a few days last year. God knows where she went. Maybe up to that sinful place. They say the seventh year of marriage is tough for men, but for my Abby it was, I don’t know, maybe she just felt too restricted. Anyway, she came back and I didn’t ask a whole lot of questions. I was just glad to have her back. I love my wife very much, Mister Jones.”
Nieswand gulped the last of his drink, and Hannibal gulped too. His throat was dry with self hatred. It was wrong, cruel, unfair for him to continue. But Hannibal’s religion was the truth and he would not betray his idol. “Does your wife have friends in New Jersey, Mister Nieswand?”
Nieswand’s
answer was almost too low to hear. “I don’t know.” Then he turned to Hannibal and the alcohol forced confessional words out his mouth. “I don’t know, really. Abby was married before, you see. I don’t know much about her life before me. I know her past wasn’t too pretty, though, so I tried to give her everything in the present. I guess it wasn’t enough. Maybe you can’t outrun the past, eh?” Then a brief wave of clarity crossed Nieswand’s face and he stood, stepping purposefully to the bar. As he twisted a Chivas Regal bottle open, he said “I appreciate the ear, but you didn’t come by to hear my hard luck story. What was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Angela Briggs,” Hannibal said, a part of him glad to have the subject changed. “I’m not convinced she’s the genuine article, and I’m not alone. I hear Harlan Mortimer has already written her into his will. I think that’s premature, and I guess I thought I should tell you that.”
When Nieswand sat down he was the canny attorney again, his clear mind peeling away the layers of what Hannibal said. “You got that from Larry didn’t you? You working for him now?”
It took Hannibal a moment to realize Larry was Doctor Lippincott. He remembered now they were introduced to him as friends. “Yes, he’s very concerned about the Mortimer family.”
“Really,” Nieswand said, gulping from his drink. “Well you can tell him nothing’s been changed in the will, at least not yet. Angela Mortimer, or Briggs if you prefer, is not the recipient of any inheritance. He still gets his money.” Hannibal didn’t move but Nieswand went on. “He didn’t tell you that, did he? Oh, you’ve got a good poker face, son, but don’t forget I read people for a living. And yes, Larry and his son Mal are both mentioned in the will. More importantly, there’s a big lump of funding for Larry’s downtown clinic. I think it represents the sum of Harlan’s social conscience. So I don’t think Larry qualifies as an objective source.”
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