“Well, what about the father?” Jewel asked in a quiet voice. Hannibal and Cindy both turned to face her. She swallowed, but went on. “You said he stole from his father. Couldn’t he have found his son first? It’s hard to believe he didn’t even look for him. If they argued, he might have done it himself.”
Hannibal grinned as he crunched up his last strip of bacon. “Got a point there, girl.”
“Yes,” Cindy said. “Too bad it’s not your job to solve this mystery. And considering the interest we saw yesterday, probably nobody will.”
“Maybe not,” Hannibal said. “I have to move on to my next case, which might well start this afternoon in the district.”
Less than half an hour after dropping Cindy at her home in Old Town Alexandria, Hannibal pulled up in front of the Northeast Free Clinic. Doctor Lawrence Lippincott’s clinic was neither bright nor shining, but it was remarkably clean. When Hannibal parked his Volvo behind Dr. Lippincott’s Mercedes, there was a man with the look of the homeless sweeping the sidewalk in front of the clinic. Another was washing the windows. Inside, the cramped reception room appeared recently scrubbed and sanitized, except for the plastic chairs, and the people waiting in most of them. The floor was industrial tile, the walls painted stark white. Each wall held a framed painting, the kind usually found in hotel rooms. The waiting patients carried their own offensive odors, but none of them could overpower the smell of iodine, or whatever antiseptic was in use these days. Two of the people waiting coughed with the kind of congestion Hannibal associated with tuberculosis. Without meaning to, he shrank away from them.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked in an icy voice. “You don’t look like our usual client.” The woman was rail thin, ink black in a white uniform, and very definitely in charge. Hannibal nodded.
“I have a lunch appointment with Doctor Lippincott.”
“He’s upstairs in the cafeteria,” she said, raising a frail arm, pointing to the stairway on her right.
Two flights of stairs later, Hannibal found himself in a small, clean lunch room. The choices offered at the counter were limited, but the food looked and smelled good. Hannibal spotted Dr. Lippincott in the corner, sitting behind a tray, talking to another man in a white coat. He looked up and smiled in recognition.
“Get your lunch,” Lippincott called. “We’ll be done by the time you get here.”
Hannibal picked up a tray and selected the pot roast and a piece of corn bread. He drew a lemonade from the machine and stopped at the cashier. The man at the register, in Rastafarian braids, looked surprised to see someone in front of him.
“How much?” Hannibal asked.
“Donations accepted,” the man replied in a strong West Indian accent. Hannibal fished a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the man, who rang it up with a look of shock.
When Hannibal reached Lippincott’s table, he pulled off his gloves, but not his glasses. Lippincott was starting a plate of spaghetti. He smiled at Hannibal, with the kind of superiority saints always beam from their paintings.
“I see you found us,” Lippincott said. “I don’t suppose a fellow like you spends a lot of time here in Northeast, eh?”
Hannibal kept his smile from sliding into a sneer. “Actually, just about every Tuesday I volunteer at the homeless shelter three blocks from here. But I’m glad your Georgetown clientele pays you well enough that you can keep this place running for those who can’t afford health care through the normal channels. Is it all free?”
“Oh, I collect from Medicare or Medicaid from those who qualify,” Lippincott said. “But otherwise I don’t charge for the care we give here. My doctors are all volunteers from George Washington University Hospital, or the military hospitals: Walter Reed and Bethesda. They each give up a few hours, just like you do, to try to help those less fortunate.”
Hannibal chewed a mouthful of his salt free but otherwise tasty lunch. “You understand that this visit is not part of my volunteer work. I’m on the clock here.”
“Yes, as agreed,” Lippincott said. “But before I tell you why I want to hire you, tell me what you know about Jacob Mortimer’s death.”
“Not much, really. I believe his murder was gang related. I believe Ike Paton, alias Pat Louis was involved somehow, and I think his death is related to Jacob’s. But it’s no longer my concern, officially.”
“And the girl, Angela?” Lippincott asked, sipping from a tall glass of milk.
Hannibal looked up, feeling a trap closing in. “Look, I never said she was Jacob’s daughter. She says she is, and I’ve got no evidence to the contrary.”
“Whoa,” Lippincott said, raising his hands in mock defense. “I know that, and I think you’re still interested. Which is good. Because that’s why I want to hire you. To prove her story false.”
Hannibal put his fork down slowly and took a long drink. This was an unexpected gift. “You have a theory?”
“Well, yes,” Lippincott said, dropping his own silverware. “I like your idea that Jacob was killed by gangsters. I think Angela’s a fake hired by the mob to get Mortimer’s money. They knew he’d want to find his long lost illegitimate granddaughter. The old boy’s told me to stop looking for any other bone marrow donor for Kyle until she’s been properly tested. Mister Jones that could waste a week to ten days. That’s time Kyle does not have to waste. But I’ve seen you can get results in short order, when you’re put on the right scent.”
“I see,” Hannibal said. His body was very still for a moment, except for the middle finger of his left hand, which tapped up and down on the arm of his chair. “You may be right about Angela, but the motive is murky. Won’t it blow the whole thing when she doesn’t turn out to be a bone marrow match?”
“That won’t prove she’s not Jacob’s daughter,” Lippincott said, scratching at the ring of gray hair which circled his head from ear to ear. “You know DNA evidence isn’t held in very high esteem by the general public. She’ll still be accepted into the family. She already has been. Harlan sent her to get her things and bring them to his house. When he found out she didn’t have a car, he gave her one.”
“Wait a minute. He gave her a car?”
“Just like that,” Lippincott almost raved. “A shiny new yellow Porsche. Called the dealer this morning and told him to give her what she wants. And he’s told Gabriel to put her in his will.”
Hannibal pushed his plate away. “He told you that?”
“He had to,” Lippincott said. “I’m the executor of Harlan’s estate. There’s no reversing these things unless you can prove she’s not who she says she is.”
The bottom had dropped out of his case, and Hannibal could see it was deeper than he thought. Perhaps Lippincott was an ally, but even if he was not, he was a convenient excuse to continue his investigation.
“Doctor, you should know that I’ve already taken steps, on my own hook, to look more closely into Angela’s past.”
“Good!” Lippincott smiled warmly, and slapped Hannibal’s shoulder. “Charge any expenses to me, son. Together, we’ll get to the bottom of this evil deception.”
“Uh-oh, another conspiracy theory.” Malcolm walked toward them with Angela in tow. He looked less stiff in a flannel shirt and jeans. She looked a lot less vulnerable in a black silk blouse and a leather skirt. Malcolm leaned on the table between his father and Hannibal. “What are you rattling on about, Pop? Medicare? Or is it Social Security this time?”
Doctor Lippincott’s mustache puffed in and out with his ragged breath as he stood. “It’s that girl,” he snorted. “She’s evil, son. Evil and twisted and she’ll drag you down with her.”
“What’s the matter old man?” Malcolm asked. “Jealous?”
Hannibal stood so quickly his chair flipped over behind him. Doctor Lippincott swung an open hand at his son’s face. Malcolm snapped back, and the hand cut through empty air. When Malcolm swung, it was a with a closed fist, aimed at his father’s jaw. Hannibal’s gloved hand stoppe
d it in midair.
“I think that’s a little extreme,” Hannibal said, his voice tight. “He is your father.” Then Hannibal turned his hand, twisting Malcolm’s arm around and down. Malcolm stared into Hannibal’s lenses for a moment, until he realized he could not win this contest and yanked his hand away. As he turned to go, Hannibal caught a final view of Angela’s face. For a brief instant, he saw a flash of terrible hatred, a hate that struck out like venom from a spitting viper. Then it disappeared so quickly a man could doubt if he really saw it at all.
Horns blared from all directions, making them virtually pointless. Hannibal pulled his car onto what he hoped was the correct ramp and stopped at the end of the line. Ray Santiago was flying in on USAir, but the pick up area in front of the building was only a distant mirage. To reach his friend, Hannibal would have to fight his way through a mob of taxis, all flowing toward the same point like a school of demented fish.
Hannibal considered newly renamed Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport a thinly disguised welfare program for the construction industry. For seven years he had watched the traffic pattern in and around the airport continually shifting, transforming, and morphing more often than the political winds around Washington. A low flying jet roared overhead, raising the tension level of a long line of frustrated drivers. Hannibal reached down and cranked up his CD player.
The public Hannibal Jones listened to jazz, blues and older R & B. Alone in his Volvo, especially at times of high tension, he would indulge in one of his guilty pleasures. Growing up where English was spoken only on the American Forces Network, he had been raised on rock-and-roll. Right then, Eric Clapton’s jamming guitar licks were helping to keep him sane.
Inch by creeping inch, Hannibal approached the curb. When he could see Ray clearly, he switched the player to an old CD of Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway. Eventually he came within reach, and Ray swung into the seat beside him, tossing his overnight bag into the back seat. Now Hannibal faced the equally intimidating task of getting out of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.
“Welcome back, Ray,” Hannibal said, showing none of his frustration. “How’d you like Corpus Christi?”
“It’s a lovely city, Hannibal.” Ray leaned back and yawned contentedly. He was not used to having people drive him around, and he was going to enjoy it. “A lovely city filled with lovely people. Clean. Quiet. And the most amazing Mexican food, Chico. The city has everything, except maybe what you sent me to find.”
Hannibal saw his break, downshifted, and powered up the ramp onto I-395. From there, home was a snap. “You mean Angela’s adoption papers? Hey, I’m not sure I wanted you to find them.”
Ray looked puzzled. “Long, expensive trip for something you don’t want.”
“I’m just not sure Angela’s who she says she is,” Hannibal said. “If you found adoption records at the local orphanage, or a name change at City Hall, it would support her story. Since you didn’t it throws a certain amount of suspicion on her.”
“Maybe,” Ray said as Hannibal cut across three lanes of traffic to reach the eastward extension of I-395, headed toward Anacostia. “The lady at city hall, she said people change their names all the time without going through the legal motions.”
“True,” Hannibal said, “but what about the orphanage?”
“Burned to the ground two years ago.”
“What?” Hannibal slowed and pulled into the right lane. “Everything?”
“All the records were destroyed,” Ray said. He pulled out his cigarettes, but reconsidered lighting up in Hannibal’s car.
“Damn. Can’t even prove whether she was ever in Corpus Christi.”
“Oh, she was there all right,” Ray said. Pride shone from his sly, round face.
“And just how do you know this?”
“Because, Chico, I went to the library.” Ray puffed up at the look of surprise on Hannibal’s face. “Know what they had there? All the high school year books. I found Angela Briggs in last year’s graduating class, and it’s this girl’s picture.”
“I’m impressed,” Hannibal said. “You’re a better detective than I am.”
“She was also in the two years before,” Ray went on, his face beaming, “but that’s all, so I figure she was somewhere else her freshman year. So. What does that prove?”
“Not much,” Hannibal said. “We just know she was there. But did her adoption records burn, or does a convenient fire allow her to make up this story. And what about the guy she claims adopted her?”
“Dead,” Ray said, “two years ago.”
Hannibal looked at his friend with new respect. “You looked for Briggs?”
“I figured Sam Briggs could tell us for sure if this girl was his daughter,” Ray said. “But I couldn’t find him in the phone book, so I tried the obits. There he was.”
“At least, there was a Sam Briggs,” Hannibal said. “Any mention of Angela?”
Ray closed his eyes to prompt his memory. “He is survived by his sister Edwina Briggs, and an adopted daughter. That’s all it said. No name.”
Hannibal was quietly thoughtful for the rest of the drive. In a few minutes he was off the highway and onto the narrow streets of his part of the District, the area surrounding the Washington Navy Yard. Traffic was light, and a few minutes later he pulled up in front of his building and set the emergency brake. He turned in his seat to face Ray.
“Where you going?”
Hannibal looked like he was about to swallow something bitter. “I hate to say it, but I think I ought to take my suspicions to the police.”
-22-
The Fairfax City Municipal Center was a clean, modern facility on Old Lee Highway, two miles south of Gabriel Nieswand’s house. Hannibal called ahead, prepared to give a report to whatever policeman was on duty. He was surprised to find Orson Rissik in the office on Saturday, and even more surprised to hear the duty officer say Detective Rissik was anxious to speak with him.
Hannibal parked in the nearly empty lot and pushed through the glass doors, following the directions he was given to Rissik’s office. It was medium sized, but very clean and brightly lit. Rissik was talking on the phone when Hannibal arrived, so he sat in the visitor’s chair and looked around. Rissik wore a conservative blue suit, but his Structure tie was pulled down from his throat and the top button of his crisply starched shirt hung open.
His desk was fanatically orderly, every sheet of paper in one of the neat stacks, or in an OUT box, or one marked Hold. His IN box was empty. Three framed citations clung to the walls left and right of the desk. Behind Rissik’s head hung the only other picture of any kind in the room. It was a poster of a pelican trying to eat a frog. His head already in the bird’s mouth, the frog had reached out and wrapped a hand around the pelican’s throat, preventing it from swallowing him. A caption under the picture said “Never Give Up”.
When Rissik hung up, he took three deep breaths. Then he stood, fixing his dangerous blue eyes on Hannibal. “So? What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a cop,” Hannibal shot back. “You got a problem?” Rissik was polite, friendly and respectful during their last meeting. His change of attitude caught Hannibal off guard.
“Problem?” Rissik repeated, leaning on his fists on his desk. “Problems line up to come visit me. Want to know why I’m in here, working on a Saturday? I got a murder investigation going on. I got a prime suspect too. Got a name. Know where he usually hangs out. Only thing is, some P.I. trying to solve his own case chased my prime suspect underground, along with his nearest known relative. The Lerner brothers have disappeared.”
Hannibal’s eyes flared wide behind his shades, but he held his tongue long enough to stand, turn, and close the half glass door to Rissik’s office. When he turned, his teeth were bared, his hands curled into fists.
“You got a lot of damned nerve, Chief,” he shouted, pacing toward the desk. “First of all, you sent me looking for Wally Lerner, hoping for a lead to his brother.
Second, you wouldn’t have had a suspect if I didn’t hand you a description. And one more thing, pal.” Hannibal leaned on his own fists on Rissik’s desk, leaning in until they were nose to nose. “Your junior G men would have had the perp under wraps minutes after the murder if they had asked me a couple of questions before they slapped the cuffs on me and hauled me away.” They stood there, face to face for nearly a full minute. Finally, Hannibal said “Now, are you interested in a shot at maybe finding this guy?”
Rissik stood straight, then motioned for Hannibal to have a seat. When Hannibal was in a chair, Rissik walked to his side table. He refilled his coffee cup, poured another and handed it to Hannibal. Then he sat down, took a long sip, and leaned back. His chair squeaked in the silence.
“All right. Those knuckleheads were faulty on procedure. And so was I, asking you to do what should have been police work. Now, what you got?”
“Apology accepted,” Hannibal said, tasting his coffee. At least this cop could do one thing right. “Actually, we can help each other. Can your case extend to Great Falls?”
Rissik rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger, like a real old-fashioned detective. “It can if I have a good reason. Is that where the Lerners are?”
“Not likely,” Hannibal said. “But there’s a connection. Bear with me for a minute here. You know who Harlan Mortimer is?”
“The black real estate wheeler dealer?” Rissik asked. “I’ve heard of him. I don’t think he’s got any mob connections, though. You saying he does?”
Hannibal held up a gloved palm. “Not like that. But he’s got a granddaughter he never knew he had, by his son who’s dead now. She just turned up, and it looks like he’s ready to put her in his will.”
Hannibal could see Rissik’s mind clicking as he did the arithmetic. He knew exactly how this equation added up. “You figure she’s not legit.”
“Bingo. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s the bait in a mob plot to get the old man’s money. Now, I’m not going to give you details, because there’s a question of confidentiality here, but I think maybe the old man’s son, the girls supposed father, was killed by Sloan Lerner and his friends. So it makes sense…”
Blood and Bone Page 14
