- by Austin S. Camacho
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
-1-
SUNDAY
"Wake up, Joey," Floyd said to his bodyguard. "You might have to kill this one."
The stranger drew Floyd's attention the second he walked into the club. Something marked him as a dangerous man, but it took Floyd a minute to figure out what. Like everyone else at The Tip Top that night, he was black-actually, light skinned for a black man, kind of a golden color, with wavy brown hair cut short. He was not particularly big, barely six feet and a little on the thin side. His clothes did not stand out. He wore a basic black suit and tie.
A man's eyes would sometimes draw Floyd's attention, but that could not be it this time. The stranger wore very dark wraparound shades. As the man moved around the crowded tables toward him, Floyd realized it was the stranger's attitude that had drawn his eye. This man carried a calm confidence seldom seen in a place like this in Northeast Washington D.C.
"You need something?" Floyd asked as the stranger stopped in front of him. He certainly would not rise from his chair for a nobody, and Joey and Lawrence would take care of any trouble, if anybody was stupid enough to start some. The stranger crossed his hands in front of himself, hands covered by black leather gloves. The man looked bored.
"Just to deliver a message," the stranger said. "It's from Jewel. She says she quits."
The music in the Tip Top was throbbing so loud Floyd could not make out the words, although he could feel the beat. It made conversation almost impossible. But he heard this man clearly.
"And you are?"
"Jones," the stranger said. "Hannibal Jones."
Floyd leaned forward to make sure Hannibal heard him. "You know, around here pimps don't go around trying to rip each other off. But I'll tell you what, Slick. You tell that bitch to drag her narrow ass in here in the next ten minutes, and maybe I won't mess her up too bad."
"You've misunderstood," Hannibal said. He dropped a card on the table. It bore his name phone number, and the word "troubleshooter" in block letters. "The woman is under my protection," he said. "Let it go. She's gone. Get over it."
The music lowered, and Floyd noticed every eye in the place was on him. All of them, drunks, whores, drug addicts, and a few real people who wanted to relax for a while. They all smelled of liquor, or drugs, or cigarettes, or desperation. This Hannibal Jones did not smell of any of that. He was an island in this place, isolated and alone. Floyd glanced to his left with a wry smirk.
"Look here, stud. This here's Joey. He takes care of my light work. And that guy behind you, Lawrence, he cleans up the messes Joey leaves behind. If I was you I'd get to stepping before I pissed somebody off. You getting my message?"
"Look, can't we talk about this?" Hannibal said. Floyd's only response was a blank stare. Hannibal glared down at the floor for a moment and curled his lips in. "The hard way," he said. "It's always got to be the hard way." Then he looked up and Floyd saw his own smile disappear in Hannibal's lenses. "Okay, who's first?" Hannibal asked.
Joey was good. There was no telegraph, no warning body language. But somehow, when his big right fist reached its target, Hannibal's face was no longer there. Floyd saw his bodyguard take a hard snap kick in the gut and a back fist across his face before Lawrence got his arms around Hannibal, locking his arms down. Somebody stopped the music but nobody spoke. It was a private hassle, but everybody wanted to watch.
"Not bad, stud," Floyd said, "but you can't expect to come in here with that Jackie Chan shit against the big boys."
"Uh-huh," Hannibal said. He smashed his head back, bloodying Lawrence's nose. Then he snapped forward, grabbed Lawrence's ankle and jerked up. Floyd heard Lawrence's head thump the floor behind Hannibal. Joey moved in again, but black gloves blocked both his best punches. Then two crisp jabs and an uppercut put Joey over Floyd's table, spilling his scotch. More confused than scared, Floyd reached for the nine millimeter at the back of his waistband.
"Don't even go there, stupid." Hannibal pulled an automatic from under his right shoulder and shoved its muzzle into Floyd's cheek. "You get your piece out, it's pure self defense and I turn your face into abstract art."
Silence gripped the room and the Tip Top became a still life while Floyd watched himself sweat in Hannibal's Oakleys. He thought about business and his rep and his honor. Mostly he thought about dying.
"It's your world," Floyd said. "What now?"
"Now we negotiate and come to an agreement," Hannibal said, sitting on the table and pulling his gun back an inch. "My terms are simple. Let it go. One girl less. No comeback."
Floyd sat taller and straightened his face. No fear, he told himself. Back to business. "Who you work for, stud? New player coming in?"
"I work for me," Hannibal said. "Solve other people's problems. Jewel had a problem. She wanted to get off the streets. I solved it. Now, is this over?"
Floyd considered himself a good judge of character. He could negotiate a position with this one. The man was leaving him an out, so it would not look like he was getting ripped off.
"All right, if the bitch wants out, she's out. But this better be for real. I find out she's working the streets I'll kill her. I mean anywhere, dig? I got friends all up and down the coast, and they know every whore out there. She starts hooking, her ass is mine."
"Fair enough," Hannibal said. "I'll pass that on. As long as she's out of the life, I'll keep her safe. Otherwise, I'm out of it." Then he holstered his weapon and stood up. "Pleasure doing business with you. When your two friends wake up, tell them I said practice."
-2-
Hannibal pulled into his parking space and killed the engine of his white Volvo 850 GLT. There were no markings, no sign or label, but the space was universally recognized as his.
He was on the move since early Saturday morning and his long day ended with a bar fight and a half-hour drive down to Anacostia and home. Weary as he was, Hannibal scanned the area before he opened his door. The cone of a street light covered his car's hood and peeked in through its windshield. His street looked quiet as he eased out of his white leather seat and set his anti-theft device. He smiled at his neighborhood's split personality. He had come home at a rare quiet moment, too early for the hip folks to be coming home from the party, or for the church crowd to be heading out.
His rubber soles fell silently on the red sandstone steps leading up to the front door of his red brick, three-story building. He used two keys to open the outer door. Once in the hall, he faced the central staircase but instead of turning left to his own flat he veered right. The front room of this apartment was his office. His heavy oak desk faced the door, flanked by a pair of file cabinets. A smaller desk stood beside the door on his left. He stepped across the oval broadloom rug, but before he could even riffle through the papers in his IN box he heard footsteps from the far end of the railroad flat.
Her perfume preceded her, the sharp sting of Patchouli. "Did you talk to him?" Jewel asked in a nasal New Jersey accent. Her high-pitched voice always sounded to Hannibal as if she were about to cry.
"I took care of it, on condition you stay off the street," Hannibal said, but his casual response did not remove the fear from Jewel's cat-like eyes. She was Hannibal's height, model thin and very black, a Nubian princess whose beauty was marred by the wear showing at the corners of her eyes. A thoroughbred, Hannibal thought, passed through too many owners and broken down by being ridden by too many jockeys.
"You won't go back on our deal?" she asked, smoothing a hand down her straight black hair. "You said if I was nervous I could stay here a few days."
"Jewel, I'm a businessman and you know my rates. If you're willing to go the fee you can stay right there in my guest room until you feel safe. I just don't think..."
"Well I do." Her fingers pressed into his right arm with disturbing familiarity. "You don't know Floyd. Anyway, I got plenty of money stashed away and I don't mind spending it staying alive until I figure out where I'm going. You want cash?"
"Any way you want to pay," Hannibal said, dropping his messages back into his IN box. Nothing pressing. He would file these and check for email messages in the morning. His eyes were starting to droop.
"Any way?" Jewel asked, pressing her thumping heart against his. Hannibal stared into her frightened eyes, and they dropped closed, even as her lips parted, inviting his tongue in. His tired mind reeled. She was beautiful, exotic, certainly talented. She was also a client.
"Let's stick to negotiable currency." He gently pushed her shoulders away with his index fingers. "Something I can put on my books. Besides, it's so late it's early and I'm beat. Why don't we call it a night?"
Across the hall, Hannibal walked back to the fourth door from the front and unlocked it. Loud beeps reminded him to cross his living room, reach around the bathroom door and punch in his four digit code, disabling his alarm system. Too tired to think further, he walked through his flat to the front room, dropped his clothes in a pile and crawled into bed. He silently thanked God it was Sunday morning before his eyes slid shut.
-3-
His eyes snapped open at the first ring. Hannibal reached under the bed to the Centennial Airweight revolver holstered there, instinctively preparing to face an intruder. Then he remembered. In his daze, he had not reset his alarm. That irritating sound was the telephone. He snatched the offending instrument from its cradle beside the bed and mumbled a grumpy hello.
"Morning, lover," Cindy said. "You still in bed, sleepyhead?"
Hannibal checked the absurdly expensive Porsche titanium watch Cindy gave him for Christmas. Eight fifteen. He had slept for more than four hours, but it felt like five minutes.
"Worked late," he said, trying to pull his mind together. "Isn't it Sunday? Why're you up so early? God, I need coffee. Something going on?"
"Well, this might sound weird but I've got a job for you."
Work? Hannibal spun onto his back to get his brain into focus, then sat up quickly. His hand hit something beside him.
"You're not mad, are you?" Cindy asked. "I feel kind of guilty talking business on Sunday morning, but it's kind of important to me."
He was listening with only half his mind. What his hand had hit was a body. Jewel's body. She must have crept in while he slept. He watched her eyes open dreamily. He knew what was next. In Hannibal's experience, a woman's eyes opened only seconds before her mouth. As Jewel prepared to speak, he clamped his free hand down over her mouth.
"Nothing to feel guilty about," Hannibal replied, sensing the irony of his remark. "If it matters to you, it matters to me. Somebody in trouble?"
"That's your business, isn't it?" He could hear Cindy's soft chuckle. "It's one of Mister Niesewand's personal clients. Kind of a delicate situation. I told him you could handle it and he asked if you could make it to his place for brunch."
"Brunch?" Hannibal asked to fill time. Jewel started to sit up and the sheet fell away. She was naked. Actually, THEY were naked. "Sounds good. How should I dress?"
"Well, it is business. Better make it suit and tie. It's out in Oakton. They dress for snacks in that neighborhood."
"Oakton? I better get going then. Give me the address." Hannibal glared a threat at Jewel before he removed his hand. She froze in place while he found a pen and pad by the phone.
"No, pick me up," Cindy said. "He wants me there too. I'll be ready when you get here, so we can make his place by eleven, okay? See you later. Love you," she added, throwing a kiss into the receiver.
"Me too," Hannibal said, forcing a smile into his voice. "See you soon." He settled the phone gently into its cradle, but in the time it took him to turn around, his expression turned to rage. "What the hell are you doing in here?"
Jewel shrank back against the headboard as if struck. "I was lonely. You were alone and I thought, I mean, I figured..."
"If I didn't think that pimp would kill you, I'd put your ass in the street right now," Hannibal snapped. "Now get across the hall, lock the door and get some clothes on." Despite his anger, he watched her dancer's behind squirm into a too tight miniskirt and admired her legs in motion until they reached the other end of his apartment and slinked through the door. As the door latch clicked he leaped to his feet and headed for the kitchen. He did not have much time to get his act together and he had a stop to make before he left.
At eight-thirty, Hannibal knocked on the door directly upstairs from his own living room.
"Yeah, who?" came a grumbly voice from inside. Already up and in the living room, Hannibal thought.
"It's me, Sarge."
The door popped open and a stocky black man wearing only boxer shorts thrust his head out. He looked Hannibal up and down, taking in the black suit and tightly knotted tie. "You going to church?"
"Cindy called with a job," Hannibal said, "but I've already got one. Want to make some money?"
Sarge rubbed a hand across his scalp, past his hairline, which had receded halfway back on his head. His flexing biceps made the fouled anchor tattoo jump. "Well, you'll be coming for October's rent pretty soon and the place I been playing bouncer in looks like it might go belly up soon. Sure, I can use a few extra bucks."
"Good. Got a client down in the office side. She's paying my full daily fee to have a safe place to crash while she sorts out her life. It's worth my usual subcontractor pay if you'll keep an eye out for trouble next couple of days."
"Two fifty a day?" Sarge grinned. "I hope she never leaves. Is she cute?"
"Beautiful."
"Then for three hundred she can stay up here with me," Sarge said, smiling even broader.
"Actually, she's used to getting money for that," Hannibal said. Sarge's face fell. "But she's trying to break that habit, if you get my meaning."
Sarge nodded and a new alertness showed on his face. "And somebody don't want one of his meal tickets taking a walk, right? Okay. She's safe long as she stays in the building. You and me, we chased whores, junkies and who knows what all out of this building before we moved in. I guess I can hold off a pimp."
"Sarge, I trust you more than the FBI, but I got my pager and phone just in case something comes up."
"You going far?" Sarge asked as Hannibal headed for the stairs.
"Another world," Hannibal called back. "Oakton."
* * * * *
"Look, I'm sorry if I ruined your Sunday morning," Cindy said as they eased into the wooded cul-de-sac, then rolled slowly up a long blacktop driveway toward a three-car garage. "You've hardly said a word."
"Sorry, honey. I'm not mad, just tired I guess, and the weather isn't helping." Not really a lie, he thought. It was the kind of overcast day that made you think you could reach up and touch the gray cloud ceiling. Drops sprinkled down slowly enough to cause his windshield wipers to make that awful noise, even at the lowest intermittent setting.
Hannibal had driven from Southeast Washington, D.C. across the Fourteenth Street bridge and down to Old Town Alexandria to pick up Cindy Santiago in front of her home. Then he drove ten miles west on Route 7 in sluggish Sunday morning traffic to turn down the equally congested Route 66, to reach a Washington suburb where people bought homes for what the realtors called "gracious country living." But half his mind was occupied by the houseguest who had sneaked into his bed, a guest he had somehow failed to mention to Cindy.
He pulled his Volvo to a stop and stared up at the stately colonial in which Gabriel Niesewand stored his life, barely outside the beltway. It was exactly the type of brick monstrosity he knew Cindy aspired to. And he would love to give her one, the next time he found himself with three quarters of a million spare dollars laying around.
Hannibal was out of his car and planning his long stroll up the flagstone path when he heard an engine roar to life and a long Mercedes came screaming backward down the center of the wide driveway.
"Whoa!" he shouted, waving his arms. The limousine's brakes locked, filling the air with the smell of burned tread. He caught a glimpse of a woman in the back seat. Fortyish, with blond hair that did not fit with her complexion and a pleasant face which was losing the battle with gravity.
Then the driver got out, a beefy black man in chauffeur's livery, curling and opening his huge hands. His nose showed he had not won every fight in his life, but his eyes said he did not particularly care. He seemed to take a second to appraise Hannibal, deciding they were in the same class.
"Move it before I push it out of my way."
Hannibal straightened his jacket and stepped forward. "Look, I'm not somebody's driver here. That car's my baby. You put a scratch on her I'll break your legs."
The chauffeur spit out of the side of his mouth. Hannibal heard Cindy in his right ear say "You're tired. Don't do this," in a pleading tone, but he was in no mood for taking crap off some servant.
"Them shades supposed to scare me?" the chauffeur asked. "You don't look like one of the lawyers, so I don't have to take your shit. Move the frigging car."
"I'll bet you been in a lot of fights," Hannibal said, pointing at the horseshoe-shaped scar on the back of the chauffeur's right hand, "but that don't mean jack to me."
The bigger man's eyes flared open. He swung his big right fist at Hannibal's head. Hannibal blocked that punch, then the left, and drove his own left into the bigger man's stomach. The driver grunted but swung a right cross that connected this time. Hannibal's ears were ringing, partially with Cindy's scream. He let two more hard punches bounce off his upraised forearms. Then he managed a pair of jabs into the other man's already broken nose. Seeing an opening, he drove an overhand right into the man's jaw. The driver staggered against the Mercedes and Hannibal saw one more good shot would do it.
"Paton!" the shout turned Hannibal's head. A man was trotting down the path from the house, moving like he was unaccustomed to anything more than a mild walk. He wore an expensive sport coat and a less expensive toupee.
"Miss Santiago, what is the meaning of this?" he asked. Hannibal lowered his hands, realizing how stupid he was being. Cindy stepped forward, turning on the smile she used to calm both clients and prosecutors.
"Mister Niesewand, may I present Mister Hannibal Jones. I'm sorry, but there was some misunderstanding with your driver."
"Paton, I don't believe this," Niesewand said with an air of superiority Hannibal found stifling. "Now you go on and take Mrs. Niesewand on those errands. Mister Jones, I am terribly sorry."
"My fault," he said, suddenly not wanting to get Paton into more trouble. "As Ms. Santiago said, a misunderstanding." Then he faced Paton. "You've got quite a right there."
"You got a pretty mean punch yourself," the driver said, extending his right hand. "I'm Ike. Sorry about this. I'm kind of sensitive about..."
"I understand." Hannibal saw Paton's eyes cut to Niesewand and realized it was important to shake Paton's hand, showing no hard feelings, which, in fact, was the case. Paton had shrunk back into his servant's role. With an insecure smile he got back in the limo, pulled it forward a bit and eased it carefully around Hannibal's car.
"I know he's a little rough," Niesewand said, "But he looks out for the Missus. And I use him as a courier sometimes. You give a package to Paton, you know it's going to get where you want it to go." Hannibal judged Niesewand to be in his mid-fifties. Lawyers, in his experience, came in three brands. Crusaders, like Cindy. Honorable businessmen, like her other boss Dan Balor. And slippery, legalized con men. While he smiled and nodded, he placed Gabe Niesewand into category three.
Once inside, they walked across a marble floor through a two-story foyer, and out onto a custom redwood deck. Soft classical music leaked out to the deck from the house. The table was set for four. A nameless woman in modernized maid's attire poured coffee and delivered Belgian waffles with fat, brown sausages. Actually, Hannibal assumed she did not have a name. She simply had not been introduced; a sign of her unimportance, which he would have expected to offend Cindy.
"I must say, you're looking lovely today Miss Santiago," Niesewand said once they were settled in their chairs. She smiled and nodded, and Hannibal had to admit the man was right. His woman was stately and slender, with a high, narrow waist. Her deep brown hair was carefully waved in a contemporary style a couple of inches beyond shoulder length. Yes, she knew how to wear that expensive navy business suit, but her real beauty was born to her in her Hispanic heritage. It was in her smooth, clear skin, her sharp cheek bones, her dark eyes and broad smile. It was the face of an angel and, because he preferred women with ample brassiere filling, he thought her body blew Jewel's away.
Why had he not noticed her beauty when he picked her up today? Was he taking her for granted? It was too late to say anything now, after her boss had already complimented her.
"So, Mister Jones," Niesewand began around a mouth full of waffle, "Miss Santiago tells me you help people in trouble."
Hannibal pushed whipped cream up onto the bit of waffle on his fork. "Cindy is familiar with my business," he said. "But so is the other senior partner in your firm, Dan Balor. Surely you spoke with him."
"Of course. I know how you cleaned out that apartment building of his that turned out to be a crack house. He tells me you live there now and act as building superintendent. Like Miss Santiago, he raves about your ability to get things done. In fact, I've checked you out rather thoroughly. Your police career, both as a patrolman and a detective. And your time with the Secret Service. Everything I know now makes me certain you're the right person to help a client of mine named Harlan Mortimer."
"You're careful about your client's welfare," Hannibal said across the top of his coffee cup.
"He's also a friend."
"He's also black," Hannibal said, slicing the end off a sausage. "That why you want me?" He ignored Cindy's dagger eyes.
"What else do you know about Harlan?"
Hannibal gathered his thoughts while he chewed, then cleared his mouth with coffee. "I know he started out buying real estate in the district, then got real rich buying and selling land in northern Virginia. I know he's got a rep for being tough in business, but fair."
"Did you know his only son ran off eighteen years ago? That he was nineteen when he took off? That he left behind a wife and his infant son?"
"That the problem?" Hannibal asked. He was noticing how well the closely planted trees protected Niesewand's deck from the rest of the world. A brightly colored jay was chatting with his plainer mate on a branch a few feet from Hannibal's head. These noisy neighbors seemed to make the scene more peaceful.
"Yes, I suppose it comes down to a missing person's case."
The anonymous girl replaced their plates with new ones, each holding half a cantaloupe. "Not my usual type of thing," Hannibal said, bracing for the kick under the table and accepting it silently. Then the rapid-fire patter of footsteps drew everyone's attention to the house. The man who burst through the French doors had a round, sepia-toned face under a shiny pate. Gray cotton wool ringed the back of his head from ear to ear. An expensive suit hung loosely on his skeletal form.
"Ah, our fourth has arrived, albeit a bit late," Niesewand said, standing. "Cynthia, Mister Jones, Doctor Lawrence Lippincott."
"A pleasure," Cindy said, taking the older man's hand.
"That goes double for me," Hannibal said, shaking the doctor's hand briskly. "Your free clinic isn't far from my place in Anacostia. Got to admire a man who gives back after he's made it."
"Glad you know a little about Lawrence," Niesewand said as they all sat. "He's the Mortimer family doctor. As they are both my clients he's the one who brought the problem to my attention."
Hannibal pointed to his cup and the phantom girl refilled it. "I'm not sure I understand. Just what is the problem with Mortimer's son?"
"His son isn't really the problem," Lippincott said in a precise Harvard accent. "Well, perhaps after all he is, but the problem I must face is the son he left behind. A son now grown to his teens in Harlan's home. A boy who's spent the last five years wrestling with chronic myelogenous leukemia. An old man's disease, for God's sake."
The pain on Cindy's face made Hannibal's heart ache. Silence settled over their table in the peaceful woods. Even nearby birds became still. And the melon in his mouth was still pulpy, but not nearly as sweet as it tasted a second ago. Swallowing was difficult, but he managed.
"Excuse me, Doctor, but I always thought leukemia was a children's disease."
"Not this type," Lippincott said. "What you hear about generally is lymphocytic leukemia. It attacks children, but if we find it early we can usually beat it with chemicals and radiation. Myelogenous," Lippincott gulped a mouthful of coffee, "well, it's rather a tougher opponent. We've taken radiation and chemotherapy just about to their limits with Kyle."
Lippincott lapsed into silence and Niesewand picked up the ball. "Lawrence here thinks a bone marrow transplant could be the answer, but you can't get it from just anybody. Blood and bone marrow have to be the same type. Parents and siblings have the best chance of a match."
"I see it," Hannibal said, mostly to spare Niesewand having to say more. "The known family's been tested I assume, with no luck. That's why the manhunt."
Niesewand raising his left hand. The server appeared with a box of cigars. Only Niesewand took one. "It is, as you say, a missing person's case," he said, lighting his cigar, "but if I understand your business correctly, this is indeed your type of thing."
Hannibal turned to Lippincott who was clinking a spoon around in his cup. "How much time does the boy have?"
"We're clutching at straws here."
"Okay, I get it," Hannibal said, easing his glasses off. "Last chances are by definition what we try when all else has failed and time is running out. That's okay. Desperation is my business. How much time?"
"Two, maybe three weeks if his progress doesn't change."
Hannibal sat back in his chair. Lilacs and forsythia growing beneath the deck seemed inappropriately sweet. "Gone eighteen years. Three weeks to find him and bring him back."
"Money is no barrier," Niesewand said. "You can drop any other jobs you're working on and give this your complete attention."
The low clouds were breaking up, but instead of true sunshine, the sky cast a ghostly glow around objects. Hannibal slid his Oakleys back into place. "I don't drop prior cases. They are commitments just as this would be. And my fees don't change. I get five hundred dollars a day plus expenses, and my expenses are never questioned. Anybody I subcontract gets another two-fifty a day."
"This means you'll take the case?" Niesewand asked.
"Maybe. But I won't take a penny until I know there's some chance of success. I'll have to see what kind of leads the family can give me, then we'll see."
Cindy squeezed his hand, implying she knew his answer before he did.
-4-
Hannibal wished he could travel by helicopter. Great Falls, Virginia, where Harlan Mortimer lived, was about ten miles due north of Niesewand's home. But roads never travel due anything, so he followed Niesewand's Saab on a zigzag path for forty-five minutes, up Hunter Mill Road to Springvale Road then across the Georgetown Pike. The clouds blew back in during the drive, and an occasional drop dotted Hannibal's windshield.
Finally they turned into a subdivision aptly named Riverscape. The grade was not steep on Mortimer's cul-de-sac, but as they pulled into the driveway in front of his three-car garage, they could see the Potomac through the woods behind the house. Hannibal let Niesewand and Lippincott climb out of the doctor's Saab before he unhooked his own shoulder harness. He wanted to see who paid deference to whom. Niesewand waved to Hannibal and Cindy to follow him to the house, but he invited Lippincott to lead the way.
Mortimer's two-story home was beautifully landscaped, with wood siding and deep covered porches on three sides. Multicolored shrubs and carefully tended wildflower gardens implied inordinate pride in his home. Interesting, Hannibal thought, because none of the houses here could be more than three years old. Did Mortimer retain the real estate speculator's habit of moving every few years?
He expected to be greeted by a servant at the top of the brick stoop, but the woman who opened the door was too well dressed. A natural color mohair sweater suit showed off her well maintained shape, but straightened black hair and overly correct posture dated her. Her dark eyes roamed the four faces as if trying to make connections between them.
"We need to see Harlan, Camille," Lippincott said. "It's about helping Kyle." The woman backed away and the group entered. Lippincott and Niesewand obviously knew where they were going but Hannibal stopped to extend a gloved hand.
"Hannibal Jones. One nameless person per day is my limit."
"Camille," she answered, gently shaking Hannibal's fingertips. "Camille Mortimer. I'm..."
"She's Mister Mortimer's daughter-in-law." The new voice came from the direction the other men were heading, but it was neither of them. Hannibal turned to see a short, clean cut, ivy league looking black man striding toward him. The navy blazer and rep tie said Harvard, the next generation. His hair was short, but already receding on a scalp that probably had not seen forty years yet.
"Malcolm Lippincott," the newcomer said, pumping Hannibal's hand. "Are you with Niesewand and Balor?"
"I'm the other attorney," Cindy said, pushing her hand forward for another solid shaking. "Cynthia Santiago. Mister Jones here is a consultant we sometimes employ."
"Sorry for the brisk welcome," Malcolm said, not sounding sorry in the least. "I didn't know your business here."
"Mal's a little overprotective sometimes," Camille said, her dark face blushing still darker. "but he's been my best friend through all this."
"Jones." It was Lippincott, calling from the next room. "Can I see you for a moment?"
Hannibal excused himself and joined Lippincott. The archway led to a two-story, bayed great room. Lippincott leaned against the brick fireplace. Above it hung an ornately framed painting of a woman in a field of flowers. The name at the bottom was Monet. Coin display cases lined the mantle like toy soldiers guarding the painting.
"Niesewand?" Hannibal asked.
"Gone to make a phone call, which is fine. I wanted a moment with you alone." He paused until he realized Hannibal was waiting for him to go on. He seemed uncomfortable with the silence.
"Camille is rather distraught," Lippincott finally said. "With good reason. She's been through a lot. I saw what it did to her to be abandoned by her husband. And now it looks as though she'll lose her son as well." Hannibal stood quietly through another long pause, waiting for Lippincott to make his real point. When the doctor cleared his throat, he thought this must be it.
"This search for Jacob is Camille's idea, not Harlan's," Lippincott said, avoiding Hannibal's shaded gaze. "He'd clutch at any imagined chance because losing his grandson will kill him. But she's the one who wants to see Jacob again. I don't think she's ever gotten over him."
"You've been the family doctor that long?"
"Doctor and friend," Lippincott said.
"Okay, tell me about the missing son."
Lippincott began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a figure on a German clock. "Jacob was a bad seed, Mister Jones. Undisciplined. Ungrateful. Irrationally immature. Wanted to be a hippie, or a black revolutionary or something. The boy brought nothing but pain to those who loved him. His disappearance certainly helped his mother into an early grave. He left a woman who loved him and his own unborn son for a street girl. And he abused her."
"Abused her?" Hannibal asked, settling into a deep easy chair. He worked to stay relaxed, trying to counterbalance Lippincott's increasing agitation. "You mean physically?"
"I examined her once," Lippincott said, his eyes floating back into the past. "Just a child, a year or two younger than Jacob. She laughed about the scars, but I couldn't. Cigarette burns, Mister Jones. Scattered around her stomach, her buttocks, the upper part of her legs."
"Pretty?" Hannibal asked to keep Lippincott talking.
"If you like that type. Half black, half Chicano. Small, but with big breasts and a big behind. Big, watery cow eyes." He suddenly stopped, as if he thought he had said too much.
"What was her name?"
"I don't remember, and it doesn't matter," Lippincott shot back. "This is about here and now. And you working for Harlan Mortimer. Look, I may still be able to find a suitable donor for Kyle in time. But Harlan won't have it, not while he thinks this wild goose chase has a chance of success."
"And what would you have me do?"
"Take the money and take a nice vacation to Florida, Mister Jones." Lippincott's face was rigid, but his hands were begging. "Send back a report in a couple of days saying there are no leads and it's hopeless."
"Fake an investigation?" Hannibal asked, slowly rising to his feet. Lippincott nodded. Hannibal stepped close to the doctor and slid his dark glasses away from his face. His eyes flared deep green and he pressed one fingertip deep into Lippincott's chest.
"Listen well, Doctor," he said through clenched teeth. "I might not take this case. If I figure it's hopeless I'll say so. Or, I might give it a shot, and if I do, I'll do my very best to find the boy. But understand there is no third option for me. I work in two modes. The best I got, or not at all."
"Sounds like you're the man I want."
Hannibal looked up to watch the source of that deep booming voice stalking toward him, very fast for a man his size. The handshake was fierce, the eyes crinkled points of brown fire. "I'm Harlan Mortimer."
-5-
Mortimer's barrel chest continued down to his stubby legs. A lower back curve made his abdomen protrude slightly. He may have intended for his neatly groomed, crinkly, salt and pepper beard to make up for the hair long gone from the top of his head. This was a man of high energy, Hannibal saw, a man unaccustomed to losing, who had nevertheless received a few severe body blows in life.
"Will you find my son, Mister Jones?" Mortimer asked.
"I don't know if Mister Jones has yet decided to help," Niesewand said on his way back into the room. Cindy's heels clicked in behind him.
"I'll decide when I've got a little more to go on," Hannibal said, pushing his dark glasses back into place.
"Right," Mortimer said dropping into the chair Hannibal had occupied before. "What can I do to help you do your job?"
"Well, first you can tell me something about your son, like why he left."
Camille entered carrying a tray and walked straight to her father-in-law. He took a tall glass from the tray, after which she moved around the room, prompting everyone to a seat by placing a lemonade for them. Hannibal took his glass from its place on the coffee table but chose to stand. His eyes stayed on Mortimer.
"Jacob left my home because I removed him from my will," Mortimer said. Hannibal saw not a trace of remorse or guilt on his face.
"You cast him out."
"No, just out of my money," Mortimer said. "Jacob, his wife and his then unborn son would have been welcome in my home forever. He lost his inheritance because he got another girl pregnant."
"Ah, yes, the other girl." Hannibal sipped his lemonade and glared at Lippincott. "Do YOU remember her name, Mister Mortimer?"
"Jacob called her Dolly. I don't think that was her real name, but rather a nickname. A pet name. Don't know her real name. Girl looked like a whore. Acted like it too."
"I see." Hannibal stepped a bit closer to Mortimer's chair. "How about some of his friends? People he hung out with?"
A small grimace. "Never knew any of his friends. When he dropped out of George Washington University, he fell in with a bad crowd. Left over left wing drug types."
"Uh huh. Not much there." Hannibal gulped the last of his lemonade. Then he moved forward until only inches of gleaming hardwood flooring separated his toes from Mortimer's. "Where did he go? What were his favorite places to hang out?"
To his credit, Mortimer showed a glimmer of regret now. "Afraid I don't know any of the places he used to go."
Hannibal bent to place his now empty glass on the table beside Mortimer's. His head turned toward Mortimer and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Look. This kid we're talking about. Did you know him at all? Had you met this guy?"
Mortimer's voice returned to booming. "If I knew where he went, do you think I'd have let him just disappear with my coins?"
-6-
The copper disc glinted between Hannibal's fingers. Even in its fancy case it looked no more valuable than any other newly minted penny to him. He tried to imagine the pleasure in owning something so outwardly common.
"That's a nineteen fifty-five double die obverse," Mortimer said behind him. "See how the back is restruck off center? That's a minting mistake. There probably aren't a dozen of those around. I keep a few of my prizes on display. That night, before he left, Jacob..."
Hannibal turned to see Mortimer staring up at his painting, lips pressed together and turned in to his teeth, eyes closed, hands thrust deep in his pockets. "The bulk of my collection is in a locked cabinet in my study, in pull-out trays. That bitch convinced him to take a tray of my more valuable coins when they ran off. He stole from me, Mister Jones," Mortimer turned to Hannibal, conflict twisting his powerful face in odd ways, "but I'm prepared to forgive him even that if you can bring him back to me."
"You haven't given me much to go on, Mister Mortimer," Hannibal said. "I'll have to consider this, but I'll let you know before the day's out."
It was sprinkling again from a black sky which promised a real storm when it worked up the nerve. Hannibal supported himself with both hands on the hood of his car. Niesewand stood a couple of yards behind but Cindy stared into his face from a foot away.
"So what's the real reason?" she asked. Then she was quiet, as if she knew if she stood there long enough he would explain. He wished he knew how she could be so confident-and so right.
"He never once mentioned the sick kid," He finally said. Cindy nodded, confirming that was all the explanation needed. Niesewand just as clearly did not get it.
"You got to understand Harlan," Niesewand said. "He was on top of the world. Everything going his way. Then his only son just disappeared. Mrs. Mortimer died of a broken heart just months later. Doctor Lippincott said it was stress-induced angina, but I know it was a broken heart, and Harlan blames Jacob. Men do funny things sometimes when they love and hate the same thing. But it's not your job or mine to judge. Mine is to represent Harlan's interests. I'm prepared to hand you a retainer right now against your fee and promise you a fat bonus if you pull this off."
Hannibal turned and leaned against his Volvo with his arms crossed. "I'm still thinking about this."
"Well, I have to get home," Niesewand said. "My wife's not feeling well. If you decide to take the case, come by the house for your money. If not, let me know so I can try to get someone else. Maybe Cynthia knows someone more cooperative."
As Niesewand pulled away, Hannibal asked "Are you in trouble if I say no?"
Before Cindy could answer, Camille came out of the house. The light rain made her hair begin to curl at the ends, but she did not seem to care. Outside of her father-in-law's presence she seemed much more self-assured.
"Would you please come back inside? You don't have the whole picture." When Hannibal hesitated she turned to Cindy. "I see you're a team. Please, both of you come back in. Hear me out and then if you don't want to get involved with this family, I'll understand."
"May I ask a question?" Cindy said on their way up the long carpeted stairway.
"Of course. I think you'll find me a bit more open than Harlan."
"Good," Cindy said. "Do you want to see him again?"
Camille stopped at a door. "Eighteen years is a long time, girl. And Jake mistreated me, and abandoned his son. But I still love him and that part of my life's an unfinished story, isn't it? But this isn't about me. I wanted you to know, before you left, what this is really about."
Camille pushed the door open. The room was dim, the shutters admitting only narrow bands of light. Someone had sprayed vanilla scent recently. A hip hop beat played at such a low volume, Hannibal felt more than heard it. Cindy went in a few steps and stopped.
"Come on in," the boy said. "It ain't catching." He raised his head from his pillow with some effort. Hannibal walked in close to the bed. The bald head and skeletal form made the seventeen year old look like a man of fifty.
"Kyle, this is Mister Hannibal Jones," Camille said. The boy presented a hand, which Hannibal quickly took. Then, reconsidering, he pulled off his gloves and shook again. Kyle's dark skin was chalky underneath, Hannibal assumed from anemia. Or the chemotherapy. Or the radiation.
"Ma tells me you're a private "Dick," Mister Jones." Kyle's voice lacked energy, but his smile made it up. Hannibal pulled his Oakley's off.
"Sort of," he said. "A lot of people think I'm just a "Dick." And call me Hannibal, please."
Kyle laughed a genuine, but weak laugh. "So, you going to find my dad?"
"Well, I don't think I'm ready to make any promises." Hannibal crouched down beside the bed and looked at the portrait of normality the room presented. Boom box, comic books, television, and a stack of text books on Kyle's night stand. "What you reading?"
"Got to keep up with school," Kyle said. "No point getting better and then having to repeat a grade or something. See, I want to have some choice of the college I go to. I don't think I'll make it on an athletic scholarship. I mean, it's a little late for me to start developing a good hook shot, don't you think?"
"You know, Kyle, even if I find your dad..."
"Hey, I know it's not a lock," Kyle said, pulling himself into a seated position. His pajama top hung on his shoulders like the shirt on an understuffed scarecrow. "Bet I know more about it than you. See, what I need's an allogeneic transplant. That means a close family member. The donor takes an HLA test. That's human lymphocyte antigens. You follow?"
"I understand enough to know there has to be a type match," Hannibal said.
"Right. Well, the odds of a match are about twenty-five percent. Mom and grandpa already struck out, so that's two out of four. So when you find my father, we'll have a fifty-fifty chance. Now, don't you think fifty-fifty's enough to have hope?"
After a moment, Hannibal said "Absolutely."
"So, think you can find him?"
"I got one advantage, Kyle," Hannibal said, standing. "I don't think anybody has really looked for him yet. I'll report in to you as I go."
Kyle reached out his hand one more time. "Will you lie to me?"
"Kyle!" Camille snapped. The question was so direct it caught Hannibal by surprise. But the two men locked eyes and Hannibal clasped Kyle's hand.
"No, son. I know some people who love you have probably tried to make things look better than they are. But no, I won't lie to you. Now let me go get started, okay. I'm on a deadline here."
Camille's face was clouding up as she closed Kyle's door from the outside. Cindy patted her shoulder, blinking to keep her eyes dry
"Poor kid," Hannibal said. "Being attacked by his own blood and bone. Got a lot of heart though." Then, to center his mind, he performed the ritual of pulling his gloves back on and pushing his sunglasses back into place. When he turned to Camille his mouth was set in a grim line.
"You got a picture of Jacob?" he asked.
"In my room."
"Well let's go," Hannibal said. "Like I told Kyle, I'm on the clock."
In Camille's room, Hannibal stared at a photograph of a young lion. Jacob had his hair picked out in a neat natural style. A peace sign and a ceramic black fist shared a leather cord around his neck. His eyes were very light, at least in the photo, shielded behind tortoise shell glasses. His teeth were very even and very white. His nose was thin for a black man, almost pointed. But his lips were full and his chin aggressive. A face a person would not quickly forget .
"Can you find him?" Camille asked.
"God, where to start?" Hannibal said, almost to himself. He ran a hand back through his hair. While he memorized the face of the man he would be searching for, Cindy put a comforting hand on Camille's arm.
"Eighteen years ago this wasn't a mystery, was it?" Cindy asked. "If you really loved him, you know where he was."
To Hannibal's surprise, Camille knelt and pulled a shoe box from under her bed. He noticed there was no dust on its lid. When she sat on the bed, Cindy joined her. Camille took in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh before lifting the lid from the box. From it she pulled a greeting card and handed it to Hannibal.
"A friend up in Baltimore sent me that birthday card. That address on the back is the place where he worked."
The address was for something called the Moonglow club. "You never told Harlan?" he asked.
"He'd have had Jake arrested," Camille said. "I wanted to let Jake come back on his own. I always thought Jake's fascination with that other girl would fade away and he'd come back to me. I didn't want anything bad to happen to him."
"Well, this is at least a starting point. Ever been there?"
"Kyle was a year old when I finally got up the nerve to go up there." Camille said. Tears started down her face, but she was not participating in the crying act. It happened all by itself. "Took Daddy H's car and got a map of Baltimore and drove myself up there. Me and my baby. But when I got there, he was gone."
"Gone?"
"Nobody had seen him for months," she said. "He just left one day and never came back."
"Quit his job, just like that?" Hannibal asked.
"Well, he was working but it wasn't really a job." Camille next produced a newspaper clipping with a grainy photo attached. It was Jacob Mortimer all right, under a huge afro and without his glasses. He was on stage at a small club, wearing bell-bottoms and three-inch shirt cuffs, bellowing into a microphone.
"Daddy H sent Jake to school to be a lawyer, but what he really wanted to do was sing," Camille said. "That's why he dropped out of school. He was gigging at the Moonglow regularly. Nobody who knew him could miss his face, or his voice, but Daddy H never heard about him because he sang as Bobby Newton."
"Jeez, the guy really longed for the sixties, didn't he?" Hannibal said. "That outfit, and taking the names of two of the Black Panther leaders for his stage name. How come you never went up to see him perform?"
"You kidding? I was too busy being a mom and studying. After Jake dropped out, Daddy H put me through college. Not that I ever did anything with it, but I owed him. I had to make up for Jake, didn't I?"
-7-
Ten minutes later, Hannibal was driving southward through the storm the sky had been threatening all day. It was almost too warm and muggy for his car's climate control system to cope with. The midday darkness was deep enough to force him to remove his glasses. He stared through his wipers whipping back and forth, straining to see what was ahead.
"I'm glad you agreed to help," Cindy said, almost shouting over the din of rain crashing on the Volvo's roof. She had squirmed out of her jacket and kicked off her shoes. "That boy needs to know somebody's really trying. And his mother needs comfort."
"Well, don't look at me," Hannibal said. "I don't go for the whiny type."
"She wouldn't have to look far if she'd only look. Malcolm's right there."
"I think he helps," Hannibal said, loosening his tie. "She said he's her best friend."
"Didn't you even see?" Cindy said. "The man's in love with her. I mean, wasn't it obvious? Some detective you are." She softened her remark with a kiss on his cheek.
"Hey, I find your boss as big a mystery as the missing heir," Hannibal said, slowing down and turning on his headlights in the growing storm. "I mean, I'll be real glad to get back there, get my retainer and get to work. But some day I'd like to investigate him. I'd like to know how an old Jewish attorney comes to have so many black friends. And why he puts up with a chauffeur he can't keep in line. And how come he sends his wife away when he's got company coming."
"I can answer that last one," Cindy said. "He's tried to keep it quiet, but it's pretty common knowledge that Abby Niesewand has a bit of a drug problem. She's been in and out of treatment centers without much success. Hey, maybe he needs a tough driver to try to keep her under control. Makes you wonder if&ldots;" Cindy's hands suddenly slammed into the dashboard. "Oh my God! Over there!"
Hannibal had almost missed it. A car traveling in the opposite lane had veered off the road, into the wooded area Hannibal knew to be the Lake Fairfax county park. It had slid down the slight grade maybe fifty feet. It looked as if Hannibal's car was the only one on the road, but he slowed to a crawl anyway before pulling to the side. Then he signaled and flashed his lights before turning around. Even moving along on the shoulder on Hunter Mill, he almost overlooked the crashed car. It was a Ford Taurus in that dull gold color so many of them seem to be, its right headlight smashed against a tree.
"Should I call an ambulance?" Cindy asked, picking up the car phone.
"Let's see if there's still anyone in there first," Hannibal said. He climbed out of his car and slid down the embankment off the edge of the road, squinting against the rain. He was ankle deep in mud as he approached the Ford. Water poured down the back of his neck as he bent to look into the driver's seat. He hated getting wet with his clothes on.
The driver was alone in the car, hunched over the steering wheel. A big black man, casually dressed. Hannibal opened the door, and the driver moaned.
"Take it easy," Hannibal said. "You've been in an accident. Are you okay?" No response. Worried, Hannibal pulled the man into an upright position. The right sleeve of his light windbreaker was torn, and blood was caked around it. As Hannibal moved him, fresh blood flowed out.
"You're hurt," Hannibal said, looking around as if someone was there to help. He considered taking the man to his own car, but quickly abandoned that idea. Even up so small a grade, the man could be hurt getting to the road in a driving rain. Besides, for all Hannibal knew he could have other injuries to his back or neck.
"Listen," he told the man inside the Ford. "Sit tight and try not to move too much. I'm going back up. I've got a phone in the car. I'll have an ambulance here in a couple of minutes."
"Thanks," the driver said. Then he drove his left elbow into Hannibal's stomach. Half inside, Hannibal bent forward over the driver. The man's palm slammed up into Hannibal's chin, driving his head into the edge of the car roof. Hannibal slid in the mud and dropped, dazed, onto his back. Rain poured into his face, but it could not wash the blue dots away from in front of him. He rolled onto his right side, fighting to catch his breath. He considered reaching for his gun, but he saw that the man he tried to rescue also had one. It was already pointed at him. He lay still, trying to clear his head.
"Appreciate the kind thoughts, pal," the driver said, shouting over the crashing rain, "but I think I'll just take the car. That way if I need an ambulance, I can call them myself."
Hannibal managed to struggle to his feet but had to lean against the Ford to watch the other man back his way up the embankment. He could not let Cindy face the gunman alone. He managed five steps toward his own car before the world started spinning and he dropped to his knees. How hard had his head hit the car roof? Self-hatred mixed with his feeling of helplessness forced him back to his feet. Dizziness and nausea drove him back to his hands and knees.
He vomited, then watched the rain wash the evidence away. Water streamed down into his eyes. He thought about his ruined suit and his car being driven by a madman and his woman in mortal jeopardy and decided if he could just have a minute to get his mind back on track he could climb that hill and kill the man responsible for all that. All he needed was a minute.
"Oh God, Hannibal, are you all right."
Hannibal looked up to see Cindy, her hair hanging around her face, her nylon covered knees pressed into the grassy mud in front of him.
"Took a knock on the head," he muttered. "You okay?"
"Sure," she said, putting an arm around his shoulders. "That man, he waved a gun at me and told me to get out. He took off in your car and I came looking for you. Your eyes look funny."
"Yeah, I think a mild concussion makes your pupils dilate. Help me up."
Together they stood, and Hannibal instantly felt better. He held his face skyward to fill his mouth with rain water, then spit out the taste of his own vomit. His head seemed clearer now. And he thought he heard a car up on the road, but with the rain he could not be sure. Then he turned to Cindy again.
"Look at you. You're beautiful. But you're soaked. Get in the car, I'll go up to the road and get us a ride out of here."
The grade was slight, but the ground was slippery and it took Hannibal a minute to reach the shoulder of the road. He did see a vehicle pulled to the side about thirty yards on and headed for it. Before he was halfway to the car he was met by two men, both wearing rubber rain coats with caps on under their hoods. Hannibal was about to ask them for help when one man reached inside his slicker, pulled out a revolver and pointed it at him. Hannibal was considering diving back into the woods off the road when the first man spoke.
"Freeze right there. You're under arrest for murder."
Still want more??
The Payback Assignment - The first novel of the Stark and O'Brien adventure series
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