“You may want to know,” Hannibal said. “And I would gladly tell you. But not out here in the hall.”
Joan drew in a deep breath, released a heavy sigh and pushed a handful of perfectly manicured fingers through her wavy auburn tresses. Then her face regained its customary degree of intimidating confidence and she pulled the door open, almost sucking Hannibal into the room.
Actually, it was a suite Hannibal stepped into, beautifully appointed and fitting his notion of luxury. Light coming through the windows he faced cast a sensual yellow highlight on everything in the room. Joan had chosen the view of the strip. He hurried to follow her into the sitting area. His eyes lingered long enough to note that he had heard both silk robe and silk sheets, and that Mark Norton was sitting beneath those sheets looking like a kid caught during a game of hide and seek.
“Do you like rum?” Joan asked as Hannibal entered the sitting room. “It’s Bacardi light.”
Hannibal nodded and Joan filled two glasses on the little table. Then she carried her own drink across the room and took command of the love seat. She drew a gold lighter from a pocket of her robe, and a cigarette from the other. She lit the cigarette with all of Lauren Bacall’s body language. Hannibal stood beside the table and poured a few drops of the liquid fire down his throat. Less than two hours ago Fancy had threatened him with a knife, but this was the first time he had felt in danger since he landed in Las Vegas. While he considered how this conversation should go his eyes flicked toward the other room.
“Something on your mind Mister Jones?” Joan asked, her long legs crossed under the white silk.
“Actually, I was just thinking what they told me on my first job, you know, about what you don’t do where you eat.”
Joan smiled, and he had to admit to himself that she was alluring. What man could say no to this woman? She was not just a lovely package, she was a force of nature. She filled her lungs with smoke, then sipped from her glass and almost shivered as the liquor slid down into her.
“Why Mister Jones, I believe you are a prude.” Smoke carried her words out into the room. “How sweet. But you needn’t worry. Mark is my husband.”
One reason Hannibal wore his sunglasses almost all the time was that no one could see his eyes widen in surprise. “I see. And the reason you haven’t made this public knowledge is…”
“Is really none of your business,” she said, leaning to one side and stretching her legs out farther. “But in fact I do have a good reason, and I would really appreciate it if you would keep my confidence.”
Hannibal thought he had some small advantage in this game and with such an opponent he needed to push that edge as far as he could. He swallowed half his drink before speaking. “Speaking of secrets, how long have you known Fancy?”
Joan slowly sat up straight, and Hannibal could almost see her conniving mind working. He watched her consider lying about knowing Fancy, then reject the idea. She must know he would not make such a statement unless he was sure. She ordered her thoughts without losing eye contact with him, something most men could not do in a poker game. But this businesswoman was a master game player.
“I see,” she said, then licked her lips. “Fancy is a close friend of Oscar’s, Mister Jones. Or was, I guess. I met him when I was out here in August. You can check that I was here easily enough.”
“And when you saw him leaving Oscar’s house?”
Joan leaned forward, solemn and sincere. “Well I wasn’t going to give him away to the police if that’s what you’re thinking. I knew they were friends. I didn’t think he was the killer for God’s sake.”
“So you hurried out here to ask him about it,” Hannibal said. Her eyes never wavered.
“Actually this trip has been on my calendar for months,” Joan said. “But yes, I did want to know what he was doing there that night. He satisfied me that he was innocent and hadn’t seen anything important.”
Hannibal saw no point in quizzing Joan at length. If she and Fancy were involved in a conspiracy together they would have their stories lined up very carefully. Besides he had a lever, the marital secret, to apply whenever he needed more from her.
“Is that it?” Joan asked. “You just wanted to know my connection to this Fancy?”
“Just like to have all the details straight,” Hannibal said. “Thank you for your time.”
As he turned to leave, Joan called, “And just how did you find me here?”
He turned to watch her breathe out a gray stream, adding to the translucent cloud now hanging above her head. “I’m a detective.”
Outside, a hot dusty wind was blowing in out of the desert from the south. Hannibal’s three friends met him across the street from The Orleans. They stood between a juggler entertaining for fun and a folk singer working the street for handouts.
“I take it you confirmed when her last visit to this burg was.” Sarge asked. “We ready to head for the airport?”
“I think I found out what I went up there for,” Hannibal said. “But I think I want to change the plan. Just me and Virgil fly out tonight, if it’s okay with you and Quaker.”
“I’m game,” Quaker said. “But for what?”
“Well now that I know when she was here, I’d like you two to stick around long enough to find out exactly why.”
22
Monday
Hannibal breathed easily, taking in the scent left behind on Cindy’s pillow, his eyes closed against the morning sunlight bursting in through his bedroom window. The silence was broken only by the sound of her flesh moving against his own. She was naked, straddling his body, their skin tones almost a perfect match. Her knees felt hard pressed into Hannibal’s waist, and her fingers pressed hard into his back as she kneaded the muscles on either side of his neck. He had to admit, the girl gave great back rub, but he was most aware of the heat coming down from her body on his behind as she straddled him. Or was he just imagining that?
Hannibal had dragged himself home just before dawn, bringing with him the deep confusion he often felt in the middle of a case he saw no end to. But after a short nap he had awakened with an unfamiliar intuition. An odd excitement he could hardly describe to himself, let alone explain. The sense that it would all come down today, one way or another. A peculiar thrill that had nothing to do with the wonders of joy Cindy had shown him earlier in the morning.
“I got a funny feeling baby,” he mumbled into his pillow. “Like everything is going to come to a head today.”
“God I hope not,” Cindy said, kneeling up straight. “You haven’t had enough sleep to face any real trouble.”
“Slept on the plane.” Hannibal turned over and pulled his woman down into a hug. “Did I seem under rested when I woke you up when I got home?”
Cindy moaned softly through a smile. “No, you seemed to have had enough energy at the time. Made me wish I was with you in Vegas instead of stuck here. And all for no good reason.”
Hannibal ran a hand through Cindy’s hair and kissed her face at random, enjoying her weight on him. “You mean Mrs. Peters didn’t appreciate your being there?”
“Well, not like she was alone or anything. She had a gentleman there to comfort her.” Cindy squeezed Hannibal tight before forcing herself to stand up. “We really need to get out to the hospital, lover. Bea’s going to be waiting for us.”
Hannibal sat up and filled his lungs with life. “A man? Not her husband I assume. Well, maybe she had a lover here in the states, a man from her past?”
“Sure didn’t look like it,” Cindy said over her shoulder on her way to the shower. “I mean I didn’t see any signs of intimacy. And this far from home, why would she hide it?”
Dean Edwards’ quarters at Charter looked more like a motel room than a hospital room. There was none of the usual antiseptic smell Hannibal always expected. If it was ever there the vase full of fresh flowers on the round table drowned it out. Bea sat in a chair on Dean’s left, holding his hand. Doctor Roberts, standing beside her, occasio
nally jotted a cryptic note on a clipboard. Cindy stood with her hands braced on the foot of the bed. Hannibal chose a chair on Dean’s right so he could watch Bea’s face and Roberts. The windows at Hannibal’s back flooded the room with brightness, but his Oakleys cast a slightly blue light on the scene.
“He has largely withdrawn into himself,” Roberts said, scratching at his substantial gray beard. He turned to face Hannibal, his thick glasses magnifying his eyes into huge brown marbles. “I think perhaps his mind is working overtime trying to process all these sordid events.”
“Yeah?” Hannibal’s face twisted into a bitter scowl. “Well I think it’s from people talking about him like he’s not in the room.” Hannibal leaned forward to tug on Dean’s cotton pajama sleeve. “Hey Dean! I talked to your mom a few days ago. I could probably find her again if you wanted to talk to her.”
Dean answered Hannibal with a stony silence, but did not speak.
“Look, my friend,” Hannibal continued, “if you won’t tell us what happened when you went to Oscar Peters’ house, some very bad people are likely to come in here and take you to prison.”
“This is unacceptable!” Roberts said. “I want you out of here immediately.”
Those words, coming from Roberts’ round teddy bear form brought a smile to Hannibal’s lips, but he stayed focused on Dean. “The doctor can’t protect you forever. The police are just not going to believe all the strange connections in this case are coincidences.” Then the weight of those coincidences pushed one of the puzzle pieces into an unfamiliar slot in Hannibal’s mind and he spoke almost before he realized it.
“When you were in Las Vegas last year, I’ll bet you hung out with Oscar’s friend Fancy.”
“Joan’s friend,” Dean said, correcting Hannibal as if by reflex. The room lapsed into silence and even Dean’s face showed surprise. Bea squeezed his hand staring at Dean as if his just speaking was a miracle.
“Old friends?” Hannibal asked after a moment.
Dean turned to him, squinting into the sun behind him. “Actually, Fancy worked for Joan, at the very beginning of the company.”
“Did Joan tell you that?”
“Well, I guess they both did,” Dean said. “It just kind of came up in conversation one night.”
Hannibal leaned back in his chair. “What an odd thing to lie about.”
The soft purr of Hannibal’s telephone was like an electric current arcing around the room, jolting everyone there. Hannibal recovered first and pulled the device out of his suit coat’s inside pocket. When he heard Ray’s voice, he stepped back toward the windows. Cindy followed, as if to give Bea some privacy. Bea had leaned forward to wrap her arms around Dean, and he was more responsive than he had been since Oscar’s death. Hannibal watched his clients while he asked Ray what prompted his call.
“Just earning my pay, Hannibal,” Ray said. “Got the kid with me, and we watching Ruth Peters.”
“Wait a minute. Monty’s not in school?”
“He said you cleared it with his grandmother,” Ray said. “Didn’t you?”
Hannibal snorted. “We can talk about it later.”
“Well, anyway, Ruth just had a nice long breakfast in the hotel restaurant and now she’s leaving. There was a man with her, but they’re splitting up now.”
“A man?” Hannibal could hear traffic sounds from Ray’s end of the telephone connection. He would be in his cab, ready to move. That meant Hannibal needed to think quickly. He pulled his mind away from the puzzle of Joan’s past and centered it on the grieving widow.
“Describe the man, Ray. Maybe her husband came over after all.”
“I rather doubt that,” Cindy whispered. “Bet it’s her new friend.”
Hannibal held up a hand to quiet Cindy, and then began to repeat Ray’s words. “Okay. Around her age. Yeah? Medium height. Blue eyes, droopy jowls, double chin. Bald on top, gray around the sides… “ Hannibal flipped through available photos in his mind, and his jaw dropped open. “That’s Gil Donner. It’s got to be!”
“That’s him,” Cindy called, “That’s the guy from the funeral.”
Hannibal again waved to shush Cindy, and spoke into the phone. “Yes, I understand. No. Yeah, stay with him. And since he’s there, put Monty on Ruth. I don’t think she’ll be real mobile. But I got to know where Donner goes.”
When Hannibal hung up, Cindy asked, “You think there’s something going on between those two?”
“I don’t think he’d have traveled this distance for romance, and now I’ve got two people who’ve told me they didn’t act like lovers a thousand miles away from prying eyes.”
“Who cares?” It was Bea, still caressing Dean but with her tear-stained face pointed at Hannibal. “My heart goes out to Oscar’s mother, but what has either of these people from Germany to do with freeing Dean from these awful accusations?”
Hannibal approached the bed, but spoke to Dean who, for the moment, seemed the most rational person in the room. “The fact that Gil Donner came to the U.S. makes me think I’m not the only one who sees a connection between Oscar’s murder and the death of Donner’s wife. I’m not convinced she was a suicide. In any case, if Donner does see a connection, he must not think you’re the killer or he’d be here. I need to see what trail he’s following, because one thing’s for sure. He knows more than I do.”
Roberts pulled his thick glasses from his face and began to clean them on his tie, directing eyes down and away from Hannibal. “You have an interesting theory, Mister Jones,” he said, “but I fear a court of law would require a good deal more than that to see a connection between murders clearly separated by both time and distance. And the third murder, Dean’s father, doesn’t seem to figure into any of this at all.”
That remark seemed particularly callous to Hannibal with Dean sitting there, but before he could respond his phone rang again. He flipped it open, but didn’t get the chance to speak first.
“Dispatch? This is Santiago.”
“Ray?” Hannibal said into the little phone.
“Listen, the radio’s out so I’m calling in on my phone,” Ray said. “Just picked up a fare in Crystal City, headed to a Doctor Walter Young’s office up in Silver Spring. You copy?”
“Yes I do,” Hannibal said, a smile growing on his face as he hung up. “So what do you think, Doctor Roberts? Donner hailed a cab and my partner picked him up. He’s making a beeline for Walt Young’s office.”
“Walter Young?” Dean leaned forward so quickly he broke free of Bea’s embrace. “That was my mother’s lawyer’s name. Never forget that name.”
“You’re right on target there Dean,” Hannibal said. “And I can’t think of any reason for Donner to know Young exists unless we assume there is a connection between the three apparently separate murders.”
23
Even with his windows rolled down, the sunlight was turning Hannibal’s car into a white leather oven. An occasional bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, but he wiped it away with a handkerchief before it could roll down into his eyes. His shirt chafed his neck just a bit, and the noise from cars and passersby on the busy street was helping a small headache to start up at the base of his skull.
Beside him, Cindy was no more relaxed. In fact, she fidgeted constantly, shifting in her seat as if she was afraid her nylons might permanently weld themselves to the car seat if she sat still for any length of time. Every so often she would stare at Hannibal but she said nothing. He guessed she had no idea how he could stand this waiting.
But Hannibal learned about surveillance in the New York City police department, years before he ever applied to the Treasury Department. He remembered hot days and cold nights when he waited for several hours for something to happen. So he settled into his car seat twenty yards from the entrance to the target office building.
This time he stared through his dark lenses for less than an hour before Gil Donner pushed through the door and stalked down the street, doubtless looking for a taxi.
Hannibal watched him move off in the direction of the District until he vanished from sight beyond the fast flowing cross traffic. Then Hannibal left his Volvo and led Cindy through the door Donner had come out of.
As Hannibal reached for the doorknob to enter the third floor office he realized he could not remember the last time he had seen a door quite like this one. Its stencil read simply, “Walter Young, Attorney” in plain block letters. A single lawyer’s name on the glass top half of the door, in this day of corporate thinking and legal teams. The mark of a man holding with very specific moral beliefs about how law should be practiced. Or, just as likely, the mark of a failure who refused to give up.
The door swung in as Hannibal reached for it, and he found himself face to face with a beefy man whose hair was cut long on top but short at the back, allowing a few strands to hang across his face in his haste. His tweed suit was cut loose on his stocky frame and his florid Irish face made Hannibal think of Spencer Tracy in those old movies his mother had loved so much.
“Walt Young, I assume?”
The man nodded as he shook Hannibal’s offered hand. “Yes, sorry, but I was just on my way out for a late lunch. Why not arrange an appointment with my receptionist?”
“Sir, it is quite urgent that we speak with you right away,” Cindy said from behind Hannibal. “A man’s life is at stake.”
“Well yes, isn’t it always?” Young said, yielding no ground despite being no more than a hand’s span from Hannibal’s face. “Doubtless he will survive until after I’ve had lunch.”
“When I talked to Francis Edwards she gave me the impression that you were more the concerned type,” Hannibal said. “You couldn’t save her, but we hoped you’d help us keep her son from the same fate.
“You spoke to Francis?” Young asked, taking a step back.
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “A week ago yesterday. Actually she goes by Mary Irons now, but it was her all right. Miss Santiago here represents her son Dean. He’s accused of a murder very similar to his father’s death.”
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