“I see,” Hannibal said. Mike’s eyes were wide, as if he was eager to answer another question. Hannibal thought he should not leave him feeling unfulfilled. “Looking at this photo, one could get the idea that this Tolstaya was the ring leader. Did he gather these people together? The Sidorovs, the Petrovas?”
Mike swallowed. “I can’t really say who the leader of the ring was. I do know that it was Dr. Sidorov who brought Mr. Petrova and Mr. Tolstaya to the club.”
“So this was Yakov’s posse?” Hannibal asked. Mike looked confused, but the question was rhetorical. “Yeah, but you brought Dani Gana, aka Gartee, to the party. You say you hired him to work here?”
“I like to give students a chance,” Mike said with an emphatic nod. “He was one of the Howard University students who waited tables and tended bar.”
“When did he leave and where did he go?”
“I don’t know where he went,” Mike said, picking up his glass and swallowing half its contents. “I really don’t. But I know when he left. We were talking about it today after we heard the awful news about Mrs. Petrova.”
“Not sure I see the connection,” Hannibal said.
Mike downed the last of his vodka and stared into Hannibal’s eyes. “It was almost spooky. I mean, Nikita Petrova dies. Gary resigns the next day. The day after that, Mr. Tolstaya leaves the city, never to return. Three years later, you come in, asking about the Tolstayas. The same day, Mrs. Petrova dies. And now, the next day, you return, asking about Gary.”
“Yeah,” Hannibal said, looking back down at the photo. “Spooky.”
* * * * *
Howard University sits like a modest houseguest at the northern edge of LeDroit Park, one neighborhood in the District that gives visitors the feeling of stepping into an earlier era of the city’s development. When he lived in New York, Hannibal heard all about Harlem and its renaissance. But when he moved to Washington, he learned that this little neighborhood was the real center of African American intellectual and cultural life until about 1950. This was where black doctors, lawyers, professors and businessmen lived. Many of them taught at Howard. Fifty years later, the area had a bit of a split personality. Parts were badly run down, but younger people who could appreciate the area’s heritage and distinct architecture were moving in to try to revitalize it.
Howard itself was exactly what Hannibal thought a college campus should be. Huge brick, colonial looking buildings and well-treed walking paths gave him the feel of Philadelphia in 1776. Ten steps past the main gate, Washington, DC, disappeared from sight. In the middle of the city, this little settlement was a complete escape from urban life. Hannibal shook his head, thinking of how much he would have loved this higher learning experience rather than the combination of correspondence courses and nights at City College that brought him his degree. For now, he would just hope it was the place where he could confirm who Dani Gana really was and where he was from.
He was very pleased and only a little surprised to find the registrar’s office open on the weekend. He doubted it was really necessary, but he knew they made up jobs to find excuses to pay students who needed financial aid. It was obvious that the young woman in charge of the office that day was a student. Her round, dark face wore a bright smile and big, inquisitive eyes. She had pulled her hair back and wrapped it with a rubber band, where it puffed out into a soft, fuzzy ball. She asked, in exacting English, if she could help him.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m trying to find one of your alumni, a man named Gartee Roberts. Do you have any record of where he may have gone?”
“I’m sorry, sir. We sometimes have forwarding addresses, but we don’t make them available to the public.” Her smile never wavered.
“Look, I’m a detective,” Hannibal said, displaying his identification. “I’m trying to track this man down to make sure he gets what’s coming to him as a result of the recent death of an older relative.”
“I understand, sir,” the girl said with unrelenting pleasantness. “I wish I could help.”
Hannibal nodded. “Is there a rule about telling me where he was from? Or his last known address while he was a student? That would at least help me to verify that I’m looking for the right young man.”
He matched her smile for smile and after a few seconds, she turned to her computer and started tapping on the keyboard. Hannibal stood by making a show of patience. The girl seemed to get lost in the monitor and he feared for a moment that she had forgotten him and was playing a video game. Then he saw her face pull back in surprise.
“Sir, when you say, where he came from, do you mean originally, or...”
“Both.” When it was offered, he would take all the information available.
“Well, originally, he was from Liberia City, Liberia,” she said. “But he came here from UVA.” Not just a different name, but a different country of origin as well. And he had studied at the University of Virginia before moving to Washington. Hannibal was considering the significance of that fact when the girl made a hmph sound, that sort of surprised sound that people make when they want to tell you something but know you probably wouldn’t care. Of course, Hannibal did.
“What’s that?” he asked, leaning over the counter to see the screen.
“Oh, I was just thinking how predictable some people are,” she said.
Scanning the screen, Hannibal’s eyes hit a familiar name. “There, on his schedule. Krada. Is that professor Jamal Krada?”
“You know Dr. Krada?” she asked. “I was laughing because he’s from Africa and he gets all the African students. Myself, I want to learn America, so I try to get all the American instructors.”
“You know, I think you’ve got the right idea, young lady,” Hannibal said. “In fact, I think I’ll go talk to Dr. Krada right now. I’d like to know just how close he gets to his African students.”
-20-
Hannibal was peeling down Sixth Street to duck under a yellow light when she answered the phone.
“Hello, Mrs. Krada. It’s Hannibal Jones. Is your husband home this afternoon?”
“Yes,” she said, in the tone she might use if she wasn’t sure what the right answer might be. “Hold on and I’ll go get him.”
“No need,” Hannibal hastened to say. “I’m kind of in the neighborhood and I wanted to thank him in person for his help. Please tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“I...all right.”
“Thanks,” Hannibal said. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
“Oh. Um. Yes. Good-bye.”
Hannibal was just wondering if there was a school to learn how to train your woman that well when his phone rang.
“Hey, honey,” Cindy said. The cheerful wave she sent through the phone was riding on a tide of weariness.
How you doing, babe?” Hannibal asked. His anger at Krada evaporated for the moment. “And how goes the hunt for the million-dollar dream house?”
“The hunt is kicking my little Latin ass, sugar,” she said. Hannibal heard a pencil scratching on a pad. “I’ve fallen so far behind at work that I’ll be here in the office all day and most of the night just trying to catch up.”
“Jesus, on a Sunday, babe?”
“Just wanted you to know,” Cindy said.
“It’s sweet of you to let me know, babe. I’m still working that same case, so no worries.”
“All right,” Cindy said. He could tell she was multitasking, and let a couple of seconds of dead air pass. “And I won’t be looking at any more houses for a day or two. But I still haven’t seen my dream house. We’ll sit down tomorrow night and go over a few more prospects on paper to see what’s worth going to see.” She said it almost as an afterthought, as if meeting another man at night was not really worth mentioning. Hannibal felt his anger welling up behind its fragile wall again.
“Yeah. Well, listen, let me go ahead and get back to work,” he said. “Maybe I can wrap this up before tomorrow night. Maybe I can join you.”
“
Oh.” He swerved around a slow pedestrian, hearing the writing stop for a moment. “I guess. I didn’t think you were interested in the house thing, but if you want to.”
“I’m here, babe,” Hannibal said as he pulled into the Krada driveway next to a navy blue Lexus. “Let’s just see what happens.”
Hannibal got out of his Volvo and looked over the roof at Krada’s car. If Krada drove a Lexus LS, he wondered what his wife drove. As low as his expectations were, peering into the garage doors still disappointed him. The two-car garage was empty. Nina Krada was certainly home, so it appeared that she didn’t have a car at all.
The front door flew open and Jamal Krada came flying out toting a briefcase and wearing a frown. He was halfway to his car before he realized that Hannibal was already there. With one hand on the car door handle, he faced Hannibal while his face tested a number of expressions, as if he was trying to decide on his reaction.
“Dr. Krada,” Hannibal said, striding toward him, “I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to ask you about a man I’m looking for. He may be using an assumed name, but I have a photograph.”
“Look, I am a very busy man,” Krada said, yanking his door open. “My wife was wrong to tell you I was available. I need to get to the university right now.” He sat in his leather seat and slid his key into the ignition. Hannibal reached into his jacket to retrieve the photograph while his right hand gripped the top of the car door, preventing it from closing.
“Yeah, yeah, busy. That Sunday afternoon class you’ve just got to get to. Right. But for now you can just confirm that you know this man I’m looking for. He goes by Dani Gana now, but you might have known him as Gartee Roberts.”
Hannibal held the photo at Krada’s eye level. After one hard but unsuccessful yank on the door, Krada looked at the picture. His eyes went up to Hannibal’s, and returned to the photo, before he sat back in his seat, facing his windshield.
“Yes, I know the man. He was a student of mine here. That must have been three or four years ago. I have no idea where he is now.”
“What about the rest of this crew?”
“I’ve never seen any of the others before in my life,” Krada said. “May I go now?”
Hannibal released the door and Krada slammed it shut. He started the car, slammed it into gear, and pulled back out of the driveway. In seconds he was gone. Hannibal wondered if Krada was being evasive or just plain lying. If he was in contact with Gana, he could be part of the cover-up.
While Hannibal stood beside his car, Nina Krada opened the door and took a tentative step outside. Her eyes scanned the world, looking for evidence that her jailer was returning. She stepped down the three front steps on bare feet, moving as if she was sneaking out. She walked toward Hannibal even though her eyes never touched him. She stopped beside him, pressing her upper arm against his, as if for warmth. She looked at the photo in Hannibal’s hand and grimaced, then raised a hand and touched one face with a fingertip.
“Her.”
Hannibal looked at her nervous eyes. “You know this woman? You’ve met Viktoriya Petrova?”
Nina nodded. Hannibal waited for her to talk.
“He has these parties,” she said, staring into Hannibal’s collarbone. “He invites all his students. Many of them are also African. I have to serve them. They are children, but I have to serve them.”
He could feel her resentment. She must have felt that she had to serve them like a servant girl in her master’s house. He could imagine Krada showing off his importance to these young students while his wife brought them snacks and drinks and cleaned up after them. At that moment, Hannibal wished that Jamal Krada had killed someone, so he would have an excuse to beat the man’s face in.
“Nina, are you saying this girl attended your husband’s parties?”
“Yes,” she said. “He wanted her.” Her finger stabbed Gana’s face.
“So they were schoolmates,” Hannibal said. “Thank you, Nina.” She smiled at him and, on an impulse, he kissed her very softly on the cheek. She beamed back at him the way a dog does when you pat its head. Hannibal got back into his car. She watched as he backed out of the driveway.
-21-
Like Hannibal’s building, the old brownstone had once been someone’s home. Now it was divided into a number of apartments that college students shared. As he parked across the street from Dani Gana’s address during his college days, Hannibal thought that luck was with him at last. An older black man sat on the stoop with his feet two steps down, watching everything in his little slice of the world. His hair was now a gray laurel wreath that reached three quarters of the way around his head, leaving the front open. His top front teeth were gone.
This was almost certain to be the man Hannibal wanted to see. He crossed the street, walked up the steps just high enough to put one foot on the stoop, and offered the older man his hand.
“How you doing, brother? My name’s Hannibal and I’m betting you’re the owner of this place.”
The return shake was firm and energetic. “What’s up, there? No, I don’t own the place, I’m the super. Folks call me Junior.”
“The superintendent? Even better, man. I needed the man who runs things.”
“You with the insurance?” Junior asked.
“Me?” Hannibal chuckled. “Oh, hell no. I just need some help. A guy who used to live here might be in some real trouble. I figure you’re in and out of the building whenever anything breaks down, so you have to know what’s going on in there on a day to day basis. Am I right?”
“Well, I can probably tell you a little about every young man who’s lived here in the last ten years.” Junior shuffled over a few inches on the stoop.
“I kind of figured you could,” Hannibal said, sitting on the stoop beside Junior. “I think if you see this guy you’ll know him right away. I think his name’s Roberts.”
Junior accepted the picture that Hannibal had begun to think of as the class photo. He could see Junior’s mind working behind his clouded yet perceptive eyes, taking in the faces and backing down their ages.
“Yep, that’s him all right,” Junior said with a smile. “Had a wild ass first name. Yeah, Gar-tee.”
“Yep, that’s the guy,” Hannibal said. “You act like you might have known him.”
“Oh, yeah.” Junior laughed. “I usually get to know the boys.” A student burst through the door behind them. Junior and Hannibal shuffled to opposite sides to let him pass. “That there is Sonny Woods. Plays baseball, studies archeology.”
“Really?” Hannibal said, leaning his arms on his knees. “And what was young Mr. Roberts into?”
“Him? His thing was history,” Junior said, smiling his open smile. Hannibal caught the tang of cheap wine on his breath. “Crazy about history, that boy. And what a talker. Jesus.”
Hannibal laughed along. “What did he talk about?”
“Wild, crazy stories,” Junior said, shaking his head at something he must have heard years ago. “He was a runaway, you know. Spies were chasing him, from his real home, back in Liberia he said. Like, how would a guy from Liberia have a name like Roberts, right?”
Hannibal shook his head, wanting Junior to continue. The super didn’t know Liberia’s history, that the African nation was founded by free blacks from America in the mid-1800s. But Roberts was a history major, so he would know that history well. It seemed the odds were about even that he really was from Liberia, but Hannibal could see how that might be the lie and Algeria the reality. Right then, it didn’t seem to matter much. Either way he was a liar, and there were more pressing questions to ask.
“I guess he talked a lot about where he was from,” Hannibal said. “Did he say anything about where he was going?”
“Not a word.” Junior leaned to one side and took his chin in his hand. “You know, he left in a hurry, all in one day, smack in the middle of the term. Maybe somebody was after him after all.”
“So he left suddenly,” Hannibal said, staring forward trying to
see Gana’s future path.
“Uh huh. In fact, I think it was them two helped him pack. I’m thinking they drove him away too.”
Hannibal’s head snapped around to share Junior’s view of the photo. The cracked nail of Junior’s index finger indicated the central couple.
“These two?” Hannibal asked. “You sure, Junior?”
“Brother, you don’t forget a woman with a body like that one,” Junior said, grinning again. “And the man’s name stuck in my mind. Boris, just like the little guy in Rocky and Bullwinkle. Kind of looked like him too, only taller of course.”
So they go back to his college days, Hannibal said to himself. Then to Junior, “You sounded surprised that he left.”
“Oh, yeah,” Junior said. “I’m surprised he left the girl behind. He was crazy about this broad, Vicky. He always said he was going to go off, get rich, and come back and marry that girl. So I guess he’s out making his fortune somewhere, huh?”
“Maybe,” Hannibal said. “And I just might know somebody who knows where the fortune was supposed to come from. The more I hear, the more I want to find Gartee Roberts.”
“Well, when you do, say hello for me,” Junior said.
* * * * *
The short drive to Georgetown University Hospital gave Hannibal just enough time to think about what he wanted to say to Ben Cochran. A brief telephone call confirmed that Cochran was awake and able to receive visitors. Hannibal hoped that Cochran was getting plenty of pain medication, but then cursed himself for the thought. He didn’t really want the man to be injured and in pain just so he would be easier to question. Besides, after having his head handed to him by Gana, he might be more than willing to share the truth even about personal matters like how he ended up with Boris Tolstaya’s woman.
Hannibal had spent too much time in hospitals to suit him, almost always visiting someone who did not deserve to be there. Hospitals always seemed too bright to him, as if someone thought the light would kill germs. Or maybe it was just all that white. Walking down the sterile halls he knew he would never get accustomed to the smell. Why, in the high-tech twenty-first century, did hospitals still have to smell like alcohol. Did they even use alcohol anymore? Maybe the odor was all in his head.
Russian Roulette (Hannibal Jones Mysteries) Page 12