Pyramid Deception

by Austin S. Camacho

  “That was quick,” Cindy said as he started the car.

  “Not as quick as I hoped.”

  “So what now?” Cindy asked. “I still don’t see how we’re going to find the people who took Jason away.”

  “Our best hope is that Irene’s killers tried too hard and left some evidence of their crimes,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “They left quite the trail of breadcrumbs to lead detectives to the conclusions they wanted, but it’s damned difficult to make it perfect. So we pick at the clues and try to pull them apart. We found some things that didn’t look right at Jason’s house. And according to Rissik, left Jason’s car at the Alexandria train station. Let’s go see what might not look right there.”

  In the life of a private detective, things are seldom as simple as they should be. Hannibal reflected on that idea while he and Cindy wandered the Alexandria Union Station, the city’s historic train station. From the small parking area of the tiny way station, built just after 1900, they looked up at the Masonic Washington Monument at the Western end of Alexandria’s Old Town. It took less than a minute to ascertain that Jason’s silver Toyota Prius was not parked in the little lot. They explored the nearest restaurant parking lot. They even walked the streets a block in each direction before accepting that it was nowhere in the area.

  Hannibal could not rule out the idea that Carlton, or even some members of the Fairfax County police, were part of the Irene Monroe conspiracy, but he didn’t see any good reason for them to lie about Jason’s car. He knew lots of way to try to find out what had happened but he always favored trying the easy things first. So, he let his eyes wander to the three people waiting on the benches outside the train station.

  The young guy at the far end of the nearest bench was only outside to get a smoke. Probably not there for very long. The Latin man on the middle bench had rough hands and wore working clothes. He was very likely illegal. He would not see anything and would not want to answer any questions. The older black woman at the far end wore mules over nylon knee highs that ended just below the hem of her black skirt. She was travelling with a shopping bag full of stuff. She was outside because there was nothing to look at inside. He waved to Cindy to follow and walked over to her.

  “Excuse me ma’am. Could you help us? We can’t seem to find our car.”

  “Well I didn’t take it.”

  Hannibal chuckled a little. “No, I’m sure you didn’t. My friend borrowed the car to drive to the train station and said he’d leave it parked in this lot. It’s not worth stealing, it’s a little thing, a silver Prius.”

  “That little silver thing?” the woman asked. “Child, they towed it away almost an hour ago. You going to have to pay to get it back. You better get on your friend for that money.”

  “Towed it?” Hannibal looked shocked. “Oh no. How am I going to find it? Did you notice the name of the company?”

  “Nope. But there was a police car here at the same time, and the cop was kind of directing them. Was your friend dealing drugs or something? I figured there must have been something important in the car.”

  Hannibal looked at Cindy in horror, thanked the woman, and rushed into the train station. Once inside his expression returned to its usual calm acceptance.

  “You really got into character for that one,” Cindy said.

  “That was only half faked. It sounds like the county towed Jason’s car. I didn’t think the detective I talked to was that smart.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cindy said. “Why would they tow Jason’s car away if they think he took the train to disappear.”

  “That’s just it, babe. They wouldn’t. The only reason to pull in his car is to go over it for clues. And they’d only do that if someone suspected foul play. And I think I know who that someone is.”

  “Then we need to go find where the car is, right?”

  “No,” Hannibal said. “Time is short. The cops are already working on whatever the car will give up. All that forensic stuff. We need to do what they’re not doing. Cover the path they might have missed.”

  “Okay, like what?”

  Hannibal did a slow pan across the terminal. Half a dozen benches lined up across the floor and sunlight from a skylight above gave the room the feel of a small church, despite the peeling green paint and older, stained floor tiles. Anxious children seemed mismatched with bored or frustrated adults who would be at an airport if they could afford it. The kids occasionally ran through the open spaces in random patterns, causing the adults to hold their luggage close. A human circus without a ringmaster, he thought. No ringmaster, but this human hell did have a gatekeeper.

  Aloud he said, “Like checking if anyone can confirm what the cops were told last night.”

  A small trapezoid boxed off in a corner of the station held the modern day Cerebus in place. She was somewhere between thirty and fifty years old, wearing deep blonde in a smart, short style, lipstick that was too bright for her pale complexion and a permanently furrowed brow. No one could pass through to the train platform without first paying her their respects. She wore her official status like a cloak, as if it was power. Hannibal put on his official expression too, stepped up to the narrow window of the ticket counter and pressed his credentials against the side of her glass prison.

  “Hello, Miss Stone,” he said, reading the unlikely name on her metal nametag. I’m working a missing person’s case and could use your help. Were you on duty last night?”

  She nodded but stayed silent. So this was how it was going to go, he thought.

  “Ma’am, do you remember a young couple that bought tickets for Canada last night? The man would have been very thin and pale, neatly dressed with brown hair and eyes. The woman was attractive, tall, blonde and blue-eyed, with an Alabama accent.”

  Stone nodded again. “I don’t remember any accent, and I would have noticed,” she said, displaying her own honeyed Georgia tones. “But it sounds like the same couple the police asked me about. They were the last tickets I sold yesterday, around five o’clock.”

  Cindy squeezed her eyes shut. She had already stopped, right where the police would, but for Hannibal the interview was incomplete.

  “Did they seem nervous to you? In a hurry?”

  Stone shrugged. “He was maybe.”

  “Do you remember anything else about them? Anything at all? Their luggage or their clothes perhaps?”

  Stone leaned closer to the window, her clear hazel eyes suddenly more alert. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

  Hannibal also leaned closer and lowered his voice. “What’s your first name?”

  “Lane,” she said, dropping her grim demeanor. She did have a winning smile.

  “Well, Lane, they may have met with… foul play. It could be a kidnapping. There might be a reward.” Hannibal slid his card through the slot. “I’d be willing to split it if there is. Do you remember anything else?”

  Stone’s hand fell on the card, her fingers touching Hannibal’s. Her eyes closed and rolled upward as if she was searching her mental attic. Her brow furrowed more deeply, and her mouth dropped open a couple of seconds before she began to speak.

  “You know, the tat seemed out of place.”

  Hannibal glanced at Cindy, whose eyes popped open at Stone’s comment. “A tattoo?”

  “Yeah,” Stone said. “I mean, here’s this guy in a nice suit and tie and all, hair cut nice and neat, and there’s this tat sticking up out of his collar, like a flame or something. I mean I’m looking at him and it’s like, what’s wrong with this picture?”

  Hannibal stared at Cindy who clenched her lips together so tightly that her lower lip poked out and shook her left to right.

  “You’ve been a big help, Miss Stone,” Hannibal said.

  “It’s Lane,” she said.

  “Well, Lane, I’ll be in touch about that reward if this pans out.”

  “Hey, just call when you know something, okay?” she said. “Usually people just blow by. Sometimes I make
up stories about where they’re going and what they’ll do when they get there. I’d just kind of like to know what happened to them.”

  Hannibal promised to keep her informed, Cindy thanked her, and they headed back to the car. As soon as they were outside again Hannibal said, “I don’t remember Jason having a tattoo that showed over his collar.”

  “I remember us talking in law school about how things like tattoos or piercings could hurt your career. Believe me, he’d never consider it. So now we talk to the police, right? We’ve got solid evidence that it wasn’t them that got on the train yesterday. At least, it wasn’t Jason.”

  “No, it’s still too soon,” Hannibal said, opening the door for Cindy and watching her perfect legs swivel up and into place in the car. He closed her door and walked around to get behind the wheel.

  “So what else can we do?” Cindy asked as he started the Volvo. “I don’t see how we can know who the imposters were who got on the train yesterday, and by now they could be anywhere.”

  “Hey, we know they were imposters,” Hannibal said. “That’s a valuable piece of the puzzle. And we know some valuable things about them. But we also know some other things the police don’t know, things they don’t care about because they’re investigating a disappearance while we’re investigating a murder.”

  Cindy leaned her head back and sighed. “Okay, Sherlock, what do we know?”

  Hannibal poked at his sound system controls and the tight harmony of The Temptations filled the vehicle. Then he nudged the climate control to a slightly higher temperature. “Irene told me that she had gone to an accountant to try to prove that her husband had milked her inheritance. With some legwork I might be able to figure out who she talked to, and he might be able to add a motive to our murder theory.”

  “I’ll bet we won’t have to search,” Cindy said, turning the temperature setting back down. “Here’s what I think. If Irene and Jason were that tight she’d have asked him who to get, and he’d have recommended one of the CPAs we work with at the firm.”

  “Hey, that’s a great start,” Hannibal said with a smile. “How many accountant firms do you work with?”

  “As I think about it, they’d want to be low profile,” Cindy said, poking the button to switch the stereo to radio play. One of those rappers who uses only initials for his name burst into the car. Cindy was bobbing her head to the beat while she spoke. “That would mean Paul Queen. He’s an independent, not part of a big firm, but very discreet.” She began to rhyme along with the tune.

  Hannibal stopped at a light, his eyes clamped shut for a second, his teeth clenched tight. Then the moment passed. His right hand moved to the console, pressing the button that returned The Temptations to the airwaves.

  “Look here,” Hannibal said, eyes straight ahead as he drove through the intersection. “I’ll be too hot for you. I’ll be too cold for you. But the driver picks the music, all right?”

  While Hannibal pointed his Volvo down Route 1 out of Alexandria toward Washington DC, Cindy faced away from him to call her office. Before they had passed the Ronald Reagan National Airport she had gotten all she needed on Paul Queen from Mrs. Abrogast. By the time Hannibal was driving across the 14th Street Bridge she had made a second call to Queen’s office where she was able to confirm that his schedule was open that day. When she announced her success, Hannibal gave her thigh an encouraging pat.

  Queen’s office was down on M Street, a couple of blocks due south of Dupont Circle. Hannibal was stunned to find a parking space within easy walking distance on Connecticut Avenue. He took it as an omen that life was getting better. He was marching toward their destination when Cindy tugged on his arm.

  “Hey, we’ve been running all morning. Buy a girl lunch?”

  Hannibal expected her to be in a hurry but now it seemed she wanted to slow the pace. It was his nature to drive forward as long as he could see the trail on a case, but Cindy seemed delicate right then. Maybe she needed time to digest what they had before they had to swallow new input about her dead friend. He looked around for a good compromise and pointed at the first option he saw.

  “How about DGS, right there?”

  DGS was a real delicatessen. The atmosphere was loud, the service fast, the food solid and good. Not a place for a business meeting, DGS was where you went when your only objective was to eat. It smelled delicious. And it was one of the few places in The District that reminded him of his days as a cop in New York. He stepped to the counter with Cindy peering over his shoulder.

  “Hey, buddy! I need a hot pastrami on rye with mustard, and she’ll have,” he turned to Cindy, “a Reuben, right?”

  “You know me too well.”

  “And to split, some… coleslaw?”

  “Oh, potato salad,” Cindy said, flashing a real smile. “Theirs is real good.”

  “Yep. That and a couple cokes will do it.”

  They settled into one of the tables-for-two lining the brick wall facing the counter. Food came quickly and Hannibal wasted no time biting into his sandwich. It was as juicy and flavorful as any he had ever gotten in Manhattan. He grinned at Cindy and she returned his smile as she bit into her own lunch. Then she seemed to darken and she chewed more slowly. Her foot touched his under the table. When she swallowed, he was ready.

  “Hannibal. Honey. I’m sorry for that… you know, in the car.”

  “It ain’t even a thing,” Hannibal said. “Forget it.” He hesitated to say, “I get it,” but in fact he understood and regretted his sharp words. Of course she wanted to be in control. After all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours she wanted to feel that she was in control of something. It should have been okay for it to be him.

  “You are always so sweet to me,” she said, eyes down. “Too sweet.” He gave her a wink and continued with his lunch. The chatter in the deli made it easier to eat without conversation. He was watching her when he bit into his slice of kosher dill pickle. He saw her eyes flash on something and then return to the table.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He reached for her hand. “No. What?”

  “Well, okay, this accountant. Paul Queen.” She looked into his eyes, almost daring them to lie to her. “Seriously, do you think this could be a real lead to your murderer and my swindler? Or are you just humoring me?”

  He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Babe, I wouldn’t waste time when we’re trying to solve this thing just to humor you. In my life, this is how it works. Welcome to the world of the private detective. I follow whatever trail surfaces until it runs to a dead end, then I pick up another one. I can’t be sure if this trail will lead to where we want to go, but it’s what we’ve got right now, and yes, it is a legitimate lead. So let’s go see where it might lead to.”

  The short walk to their destination was not enough to work off the sandwich and Hannibal knew he would need to do a little extra road work later on. Cindy kept up with his pace and again appeared eager to make some progress. They found the right building and then the right suite. Just before they walked in, Cindy stopped Hannibal to wipe a dot of mustard from the corner of his mouth. She gave him a soft kiss to that corner, took a deep breath, and turned to the door.

  Inside, a very plain secretary told them that she had informed Mr. Queen about their phone call and that he would in fact be very happy to speak with them. She stood up from her very plain wooden desk to lead them the twelve paces to the inner office door. She opened it and ushered them inside with a wave of her hand. Hannibal followed Cindy inside to stand in front of a larger, yet still very plain wooden desk.

  The man behind the desk looked up and smiled, and then lurched to his feet to shake their hands. He was a big man, easily three hundred pounds with a round bald head and thick fingers. With his suit jacket off his body looked gelatinous inside his white shirt, as if the shirt were holding his mass together. He wore suspenders and his sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms. The term “jolly old elf” came into Hannibal’s
mind.

  “Please, have a seat. I understand you know Irene Monroe. Fine lady.”

  “I met her,” Hannibal said, settling down on a ladder backed chair as Queen squished back into his own. “Have you heard from her in the last few days?”

  Queen rolled forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Miss Santiago, are you part of the team looking for her? I’m afraid I don’t know anything that would help you find her. And I’m not so sure I’d tell you if I did.”

  “You’ve heard she ran off,” Cindy said. Queen nodded. Cindy turned to Hannibal. Queen’s eyes followed.

  “Mrs. Monroe has not run away,” Hannibal said. “She is in fact dead. She was murdered.”

  Queen leaned back, and Hannibal thought he smelled bacon grease. “You’re shitting me,” the accountant said.

  “This is very real,” Hannibal said.

  “That just doesn’t make any sense,” Queen said. “Why is the news saying she took off to Canada or someplace?”

  “Because whoever wanted Irene Monroe dead is very clever,” Hannibal said. “In order to make the runaway story stick they got a substitute to buy a ticket in Irene’s name and get on a train headed north. I know it sounds crazy, but believe me, she was gunned down in the street. I saw it happen. I just can’t prove it.”

  Queen nodded into his neck. “So you’re not here looking for her. You’re looking for the killer. Or maybe you think you know who it is and you’re looking for a motive. Am I right?”

  “Paul, I know there are issues of client confidentiality here,” Cindy said, leaning forward. “We don’t want to pry into the details of her personal business. We just want to know why she hired you.”

  “Hey, I ain’t no lawyer,” Queen said, pulling a large handkerchief out of his hip pocket. “I only protect client information to protect them. Doesn’t sound to me like Irene needs any more protecting. Besides, I think you’re on the right track. You’re looking at the husband, right?”

  “What makes you think so?” Hannibal asked.

  “Irene came to me because she was worried about her money,” Queen said, wiping his face with the handkerchief. “She had a little piece of a trust fund when she got married, sort of an emergency fund her daddy left her. Well, as she put it, George Washington was a speculative business man, with a lot of ups and downs. He kind of steered her away from checking on her trust fund, so she wanted me to see if it was invested well.”