Collateral Damage

by Austin S. Camacho

  -6-

  The comfortable but sterile waiting room was at the top floor of the tower, the ninth. The air tasted canned. The door to the hall, like the door into the inner offices, was a wide pane of glass. Both bore the company logo, a stylized letter “K” with lines for whiskers and balls at the top of the two upward lines imitating cat’s eyes. The receptionist reminded Hannibal of an old movie, recently remade, called The Stepford Wives. After exchanging the usual greetings and information with her, he sat in an ergonomically correct chair staring out wide panoramic windows and thinking how often what looked like the end of a journey turned out to be the first step.

  The man rushing into the room was tall and tanned, with high cheekbones and carefully styled brown hair. In his polo shirt, Dockers and running shoes he looked like a model who had stepped out of the pages of Esquire just long enough to find out what was on Hannibal’s mind. As he came within reach, he seemed to take Hannibal in around his perimeter: curly brown hair, Oakley shades, black gloves, highly shined black shoes, and finally back to Hannibal’s face. Only then did he offer his hand.

  “Mister Jones? I’m Mark Norton, senior systems management analyst here at KCS. We’re just coming back from our lunch jog and Ms. Kitteridge isn’t quite back from the health club yet. I understand you have business with her?”

  Hannibal noticed Norton did his lunch jogging in the same Reebok DMX Run shoes he himself worked out in. “Actually, I asked for her only because her uncle Langford said I should.” Norton’s eyes flared at the name. It was the right entree. “My business is really with one of your employees, a Dean Edwards.”

  “Dean?” Norton’s face showed chagrin too easily. Hannibal couldn’t tell how much of it was fake. “He’s one of my systems programmers. Designs and develops accounting and financial applications for our clients. Real whiz with FOCUS and SQL.” When Hannibal didn’t react he added, “Standard Query Language,” as if that would explain it all.

  “I’m sure he’s a real whiz,” Hannibal said, “and I assure you what I need to see him about won’t affect his job performance in any way.”

  “Gee, this is tough,” Norton said in the same tone men in commercials say, “this one gives me a close comfortable shave.” Then his voice lowered a bit. “I’m afraid Dean didn’t show up for work today. But I’m sure Ms. Kitteridge will be happy to give you any information you need. Are you with the SEC?” Hannibal shook his head. “Treasury? Surely not the FBI.”

  “Not law enforcement at all,” Hannibal said. “Really, just trying to help somebody out.”

  “Oh. Well.” Norton ran his fingers through his hair, exactly the way men do in dandruff shampoo ads. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come down to my office? It’s a little more comfortable, and you can check CNN while I try to track Joan down. Shouldn’t be more than a couple minutes.”

  Norton’s office was indeed comfortable. In fact, it reminded Hannibal of a suburbanite’s den, right down to the miniature basketball hoop over the window. Hannibal was sure he’d find a Nerf ball on the desk, but if it was there it was hidden among the tiny wire sculptures of golfers and tennis players. The bookshelf was jammed with volumes whose titles were beyond Hannibal’s understanding, so looking in them would be pointless. And the television mounted in the corner was indeed tuned to CNN. If that didn’t suit him he could always turn on the bookshelf stereo and see what kind of CD’s Norton had loaded. It was a very comfortable waiting room indeed, if you were the type that didn’t mind waiting.

  Hannibal gave him a very generous six minutes before stepping out into the hall again. Norton had headed to the left, so he did the same. The carpet had more spring than usual, and Hannibal got the feeling that Kitteridge Computer Systems went the distance to make sure its nerd population was as comfortable as possible in every way. He also imagined the aforementioned nerds put in twelve to sixteen-hour days on a regular basis. It had been that way at AOL in the early 90’s when it got its start not far from where Hannibal was standing. Its headquarters over near Dulles Airport was a much larger version of KCS in terms of style. It seemed to Hannibal that the design of sweatshops had made dramatic advances in the last hundred years.

  Hannibal stopped when he heard Norton’s voice. It was coming from the corner office next to Norton’s. That would figure. As Hannibal inched closer he detected two other voices. The man’s voice was higher than Norton’s and contrite. The woman, on the other hand, spoke with commanding authority. The door wasn’t quite closed and Hannibal inched forward until he was within view. He could only see one person from his vantage point, but it was the right one. Despite what Norton had told him, Dean Edwards was in the office today.

  “Can I help you?”

  Hannibal spun to stare into a pair of thick glasses wedged between a bulbous nose and a thatch of straw colored flyaway hair. The man was three inches shorter than Hannibal and seemed to be stooping even lower, as if he was cringing away from an expected attack.

  “I was just waiting for...”

  “Ms. Kitteridge?” The newcomer asked. “Get in line there, pizo. It’s always a trial getting in to see the boss.”

  “Pizo?” Hannibal held out his hand. “I’ve hardly heard that since I left the base in Berlin. Hannibal Jones, and really, I’m waiting for a chance to talk to Dean Edwards.”

  “Oscar Peters,” the shorter man said, giving Hannibal’s hand a vigorous shaking. He wore jeans with a dress shirt and tie, and a pair of expensive Adidas Salvations. “As a matter of fact, Dean works for me. Good man. You another Army brat?”

  “Afraid so,” Hannibal said. “How long has Dean been with you?”

  “Dean’s pretty new,” Oscar said. “Why are you looking for him? You’re not an old friend, are you?”

  “Afraid not.” Hannibal handed Oscar a card and Oscar, unlike most people, read it before slipping it into his shirt pocket. “I see. And is Dean in some sort of trouble?”

  From behind Hannibal a strong female voice said “Nothing to worry about.” Hannibal turned and was suddenly thankful for his sunglasses. No one could see his eyes widen as he took in the lady facing him. She was a tall woman of flawless detail. Her hair wasn’t red; it was a deep, blood-tinged auburn. Her skin wasn’t just fair, but creamy clear and so light as to approach translucence. Her nose and cheekbones could have been carved by Michelangelo, and her eyes weren’t just brown, they were polished onyx. Her perfectly tailored Donna Karan suit covered a shape seldom seen away from a fashion runway. And she wore a pair of heels that added three inches to her height, bringing her nearly to Hannibal’s eye level.

  “Mister Jones, I’m Joan Kitteridge. Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “Actually I would,” Hannibal said. “It’s a private matter and I think Mister Edwards would like it to stay that way. If I could just have five minutes with him.”

  Joan nodded, her face clouded with a very convincing veil of concern. As she looked at Hannibal her whole attention seemed focused on him. “Of course. Dean will take you down to the conference room. But afterwards, would you be kind enough to stop by my office?” Then the spotlight of her attention turned to Oscar Peters, and Hannibal felt left in shadows. “Were you waiting to speak to me Oscar? Come on in.”

  * * *

  The door shut out all sound when Hannibal closed it behind himself. Comfortable armed swivel chairs surrounded the long conference table, with lesser chairs lined up around three walls of the room. a projection screen and a flat television screen teamed up to dominate the front of the room. If Hannibal stretched his arms out as far as he could, his fingertips might touch the opposite edges of the TV. Dean never even looked at the table, but went straight to a chair near the far corner. His usual seat, Hannibal assumed. Dean wore the company uniform du jour: dress shirt and tie, designer jeans and a pair of exotic Brooks Radius SC running shoes. He sat as he must at company meetings, waiting for someone to tell him what he should know. So Hannibal did, in a few words as possible.
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br />   “Bea Collins cares about you. She doesn’t know why you walked out of her life without warning. Bea is a good woman and, in my estimation, deserves better. Now, I don’t have any evidence of you having committed any crimes at this time...”

  “Crimes?”

  Hannibal rounded the table and zoomed in on Dean like a telescopic rifle site. “I stopped digging but I can pick that shovel back up again. Right now, that’s not my job. So here are your choices. You can disappear again, abandon your lucrative job and the life you’ve got started here and start over someplace else. Or, you can do the right thing.”

  Dean had trouble keeping his eyes on Hannibal’s through the sunglasses. In fact, he glanced around nervously, looking at everything but Hannibal. “The right thing. And you think you know what the right thing is, is that it? I won’t go back to her Mister Jones.”

  “Lucky for her,” Hannibal said, standing over Dean as if the boy were on the witness stand in a courtroom drama. “But you need to meet with Bea and give her some sort of explanation for disappearing. You might even consider the truth.”

  Hannibal pressed ahead, even as all his instincts were shouting this was wrong. Dean Edwards was soft in the middle, no hidden core. This man didn’t have what it took to run a confidence game. He barely had the confidence to run his own life. His hands were locked together, his thumbs rubbing each other. Despite his nervousness he had the strength to stick to his intentions this time.

  “You don’t understand. I care about Bea. Very much. But I had to go. I won’t get her involved in…in my life.” Then Dean stared at the platter sized triangular device at the center of the table. Hannibal glanced at it as well, realizing too late that it was a microphone of some type, designed to pick up comments from around the room. Good for meetings, but bad for confidentiality. And it occurred to Hannibal that whatever Dean’s problem was, it could have something to do with his work. And it could catch up to Bea whether he wanted it to or not. He nodded his understanding to Dean, slipped him one of his cards, and backed off a bit.

  “Why don’t I pick you up from work tonight and we can work out the details. Five o’clock okay?”

  Dean nodded and Hannibal turned to leave. He figured he could open Dean up more later, maybe in Bea’s presence. He planned to take as much time as needed to explain what he learned earlier that day and all it might imply. But as he stepped out of the room Oscar took his arm.

  “Ms. Kitteridge would like a word with you,” Oscar said, steering Hannibal toward the corner office. “She says it’s pretty important.”

  * * *

  Joan Kitteridge’s three-sided desk was a cockpit pinning her against the wall. Between her computer keyboard and monitor, her intercom, television remote control, her mouse, her joystick, her surge protector lined with lighted switches and a control panel for her peripherals, it looked as if she could control the planet from her seat.

  Oscar had stopped at the door. Mark Norton waved Hannibal in and toward the leather sofa along the far wall, below the windows. Hannibal lowered himself onto it. Mark stood at the door, not as relaxed as he was trying to appear. Joan leaned forward, hooking titian locks out of her eye with a thumb as she spoke.

  “Mister Jones, I’ll come to the point. Dean Edwards is a valued employee here. Talented and hard working. It appears he’s in some sort of trouble, and I want to know if you’re part of it. If you represent a problem that can be solved with money, we may be able to help make it go away.”

  Hannibal looked hard at the Chief Executive Officer of Kitteridge Computer Systems. Behind her husky voice, this woman was a world away from Dean Edwards. He sensed layer behind layer, like a steel-skinned onion. The kind of woman who could run a multimillion-dollar company.

  “Let me make a few things clear,” Hannibal said. “First, I’m not here to cause trouble. I was asked to find Mister Edwards and I have. And I have no intention of trying to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. But I think he may have made a bad mistake and I could help him correct it. Now, what makes you think he’s in trouble?”

  While Hannibal spoke, Joan sat still as a wax figure, absorbing his words. Mark didn’t watch Hannibal. His eyes were drawn to his boss’ magnetism. He fidgeted a bit.

  When Hannibal finished, Joan sat for another ten seconds, then said, “I see.” She stood to lean toward him, unwilling to leave the enclosure of her control center. “I think it was pretty obvious to all of us who know him that Dean was scared when he came in to work this morning. Scared of something. From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t seem to be you. But when I questioned him, he wouldn’t tell me anything. I worry about my people, Mister Jones.”

  “Isn’t that a little maternal?”

  “Some of these people need a little looking after,” she answered, not smiling at all. “They don’t live much in this world where you and I function, Mister Jones. That’s why they’re so good at dealing with the imaginary universe they’re in.”

  -7-

  Hannibal was contemplating these people who needed Joan Kitteridge’s looking after on his way out. One of them intercepted Hannibal in the reception area and followed him out to the elevators. It was Oscar Peters, who trailed behind Hannibal like a frightened puppy, afraid to get too close for fear that Hannibal might decide to kick him.

  “I’m just heading for lunch,” Oscar said, stepping into the elevator car with Hannibal and moving to the farthest corner. “I live right by here and just usually go home to eat. Why don’t you join me? I think we should talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Well, Dean and I have become pretty good friends,” Oscar said, pushing his glasses up. “I might be able to help you help him.”

  “I imagine I’ll find out all I need to know when I pick him up after work tonight,” Hannibal said.

  The doors slid back and the two men stepped out into the building’s marble lobby. “Tonight?” Oscar asked. “I don’t think so, pizo. Dean left work for the day right after that meeting with you.”

  * * *

  Oscar Peters lived in an antique house a couple of blocks off Route 7 back toward Alexandria. Its entrance was defended by a stone porch, but to stand on it one had to climb a set of rotting wooden steps. The house’s small wallpapered living room retained its original hardwood floors, left over from a time when someone boasted about owning the place. An archway led to a formal dining room where Hannibal sat while Oscar heated clam chowder and fried grilled cheese sandwiches on the gas stove. The cooking aromas couldn’t quite overpower the lilac air freshener. Oscar delivered the food to the table without a touch of embarrassment. Hannibal pulled off his gloves to eat, but chose to leave his sunglasses on, even in the dim house.

  “I used to date Joan Kitteridge you know,” Oscar said, biting into his sandwich. Hannibal wondered if it was true. The loneliness of this man’s life was obvious, and lonely people would often say whatever they thought would hold another person’s attention.

  “So how did you and Dean become friends? He been here long?”

  Oscar nodded, accepting Hannibal’s question as the price of keeping him interested. “Dean turned up about six months ago I guess. Not long after I joined the company. He crashed here a couple of times in those days. He and I became, well, close.”

  “Really?” Hannibal said, wiping his hands on the napkin Oscar offered. “And when he stopped crashing here? Did he start crashing at Kitteridge’s right after that?”

  Oscar looked surprised to find anyone knew that. “Um, yeah I guess so. She kind of took a liking to him.”

  Hannibal considered what Joan had told him. “Oscar, what is Dean so afraid of?”

  Oscar’s eyes flashed up at Hannibal, his smile twitching. “Dean? Don’t know what he might be scared of. Never know what’s going on with that guy.”

  “What about you?” Hannibal laced his fingers on the table, keeping his face open. “Seen anything around that company that might make employees nervous? Or something about Joan Kitteridge?
”

  “Well, I see everything that goes on up there,” Oscar said, “but I have to get back to work pretty soon. I’d be happy to give you all the dirty little details later.” His nervous little hand moved out to cover Hannibal’s. “You could stay all night.”

  Hannibal felt his stomach jump as his body clenched. He pulled his hand away as if burned and jumped to his feet.

  “I think I’ve got enough.”

  But as Hannibal marched toward the door, Oscar spun in his chair, his eyes widening behind his thick lenses. “I’m sorry. Please don’t run off. I’m the one who’s scared. Don’t leave me alone here.”

  Hannibal opened the door and stood with his hand on the outside knob. “Just what are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid for my life,” Oscar said, his voice begging. “My life has been threatened. There’s trouble on my tail, followed me all the way from Europe.”

  “Sounds like a job for the police,” Hannibal said, pulling his gloves back on.

  “The police never believe you until it’s too late,” Oscar said. “If you’re helping Dean you should be helping me.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “I can pay you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hannibal said, harder than he intended. “I’ve already got two clients. Look, after I talk to Dean, I’ll check back with you on that.”

  Hannibal was in his car before he realized that Oscar had not followed. He sat still for a moment, taking deep, calming breaths. He didn’t like to think of himself as phobic. He didn’t like to think he was afraid of anything. There were just some things he didn’t like. Like men touching him. Besides, that could have been a genuine cry for help Oscar was sounding. If Oscar was in trouble, it could lead to an explanation for Dean’s running off.

  Or it could have simply been the cry of loneliness, Hannibal decided as he started his car. And besides, he had done what he was being paid to do. He had found Dean Edwards. He jabbed at the buttons on his car phone while he steered himself back to Route 7 pointed toward Alexandria. After five rings, Cindy’s hello pushed into the car, blowing away the cloud that had filled his mind a moment earlier.