Hannibal Jones - 02 - Collateral Damage

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Oscar’s father was an MP, Mister Jones. You know what that is?”

  Hannibal smiled. “Yes ma’am. My dad was military police as well.”

  “Really?” Ruth seemed to look at him with new eyes. “Well, Foster is a conservative man as you can imagine. Very proud of his position, his duties. When Oscar accused him of covering up a murder, well, that was the end of it for the two of them. I tried, but I could never bring them together again.”

  There was that word again, and Hannibal’s resolve quickly evaporated. Another murder? He did not believe in coincidences. “Oscar had information about a murder?”

  “Oh, no,” Ruth said with a wave of a withered hand. “But he certainly thought he did. The truth is, poor Carla’s death was accidental. But my Oscar was only sixteen, and he had such a crush on her, he could never accept that, well, that God could be so cruel I guess.”

  “Carla?” Hannibal asked as he turned onto Route 1 toward the towering hotels of the Crystal City district. “Someone you knew, then?”

  Ruth nodded, and leaned back, as if reviewing slides being shown on the Volvo’s ceiling. “Oh, yes, the whole family did. Her husband, Gil Donner, was the Provost marshal at the time. Sort of Foster’s boss, really, but we socialized from time to time. I think it was hard for poor Oscar sometimes, since Carla was one of his teachers. Freshman social studies, I believe. I remember that one organization day. A big picnic and we and the Donners...”

  Hannibal parked in front of the Hyatt Regency hotel and popped his trunk. In the light from the lobby he could see the recollection had brought a tear to her eye. Perhaps this one happy memory of her son was lonely in there. He grabbed her suitcase from the bellhop, handing him a tip anyway, and got Ruth checked in. Then he followed her to her room door. Exhaustion hung across her shoulders like a shawl, and he figured she would be asleep as soon as she found her bed. But as he opened the door she stopped and more of the story bubbled up out of her.

  “They fought after poor Carla died. He was at that age, raging hormones and rebellion, you know. I remember he called Foster a commie, said it was all a plot. Oh, he flew into such a rage that day. How he hated communists. It was the worst thing Oscar could have said, if he wanted to hurt his father.”

  Hannibal carried her suitcase into the room, watching her face. Ruth did not look sad, but rather warmed as if she clung to these memories for company. He considered that maybe any memory of her husband and son together was valuable after all these years. She settled onto the bed but seemed unaware that Hannibal was about to leave.

  “Funny, a freshman in high school and he thought he knew everything,” she said. “He was a, well today they’d call Oscar a conspiracy theorist I think.”

  “Ma’am I have to get going now.”

  “He even said he knew a witness, an eyewitness to Carla’s death. Actually, assassination was the word he used.”

  Hannibal’s hand rested on the doorknob, but he could not quite bring himself to turn it. “Really? Did he say who?”

  “Oh of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “He withdrew into his fantasy world of conspiracies. Pulled away. And then, that summer, he left. Ran away to America.”

  “You mean he disappeared?”

  “Oh no, not to me, just to his father.” Ruth was drifting, sleep pulling on her. “He wrote to me. When he lived in New York with some people he met. Then he was in Chicago. Wandering. He found out he had a flair for computers, even back then. I sent money. He took courses in California. Even when he was staying in that sinful place Las Vegas two years ago, he wrote to me. I think he fell in with a bad crowd there. But he wrote. He was never a bad boy.”

  Her motor seemed to have run down. She sat staring at the floor. Hannibal took her shoulders and helped her lie back on the bed. Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed, and her speech slurred a bit. “And now,” she murmured, “and now I have to bury my son alone, because his father hasn’t the strength.”

  Hannibal waited until her breathing deepened fully before he turned off the light and slipped out the door without a sound.

  -17-

  THURSDAY

  Hannibal’s eyes opened when the key slid into the lock. The gray outside his window was a lighter shade, and the street lamps were out, but the sun was not quite up. By the time his feet touched the carpet he could smell fresh coffee brewing. Not just coffee, but his special cache of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee shipped in from a specialty shop up in Delaware. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants he had left on the floor and headed toward the other end of the apartment. She was starting his day with a smile, as she so often did.

  “Morning, lover,” Hannibal said stepping into the kitchen. Cindy looked up, caught in the act, putting cream cheese and marmalade on the tray with the bagels. Her smile, warm and radiant as the summer sun, held his attention before he noticed the other surprises. Instead of business attire Cindy stood before him in her own sweat suit. Her face, usually so carefully made up, was scrubbed clean. He spotted a small overnight case on a kitchen chair, which, he assumed, contained her day’s clothing.

  “I missed you last night,” she said. “Got to thinking about breakfast in bed. And then I decided, why not?”

  * * *

  Snuggled under Hannibal’s comforter they chewed raisin cinnamon bagels and Hannibal watched the sun make its debut over Cindy’s shoulder. The coffee was hot and strong, the way he liked it, with just enough cinnamon added. Hannibal loved the time he spent with his arm around his woman, just relaxing. Once again he considered asking Cindy if she’d like to wake up together every day. And again he wondered what this independent professional woman’s answer would be.

  “How would you feel about going away together for a day or two?” he asked.

  “Away?” Cindy asked, pushing a last bit of a bagel into her mouth. “Away where?”

  “Out of town. Actually, Oscar Peters’ hometown. Frankfurt.”

  She turned to face him, her nipples brushing his chest. “Frankfurt? You mean as in Germany? Do you imagine the firm would let me just disappear for a couple of days? Besides, aren’t you on a case, lover? How will Bea feel if we just take off?”

  “Oscar’s mother tells me he may have known something about a murder, back when he was in high school,” Hannibal said, his eyes dropping from Cindy’s face. “If what he told her is true, the culprit was never caught. It’s another motive for his murder if it’s true. I think I should follow it up.”

  “Follow it up?” Cindy asked, her brow crinkling. “Oscar’s probably fifteen years out of high school. You think you can solve a murder that’s been sitting so long? And what about the guy running from the scene of the crime?”

  “If I’m right he’s driving back to Vegas, which is a good four day ride. He’ll keep. Come on.”

  Cindy considered his words, her mouth bunched to one side. Hannibal leaned back against a pillow and sipped his coffee. He knew that he had a moment to savoring the richness of what he knew to be the best coffee on earth, born of the unique terrain and rainfall patterns found below the wood line of the majestic Blue Mountains in Jamaica. When Cindy was pondering this way, it was best to leave her alone. Besides, the warmth of her thigh against his was pleasant enough without any further activity.

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” she said at last. As she sat fully erect and squared her shoulders the comforter fell away from her ample bosom, further distracting Hannibal. “You want to interview people and check out the scene of the crime, right? So we fly to Europe for you to do that, spend a day there, and jet back? That’s crazy. You really think there can be any kind of connection between this possible murder Oscar was talking about and his death?”

  “I’ve got to follow my instincts,” Hannibal said, tangling his fingers in the soft curls flowing in waves about her shoulders. “A man is murdered. The accused killer saw his father murdered. Now I find out the dead man claimed to have knowledge of yet another murder. Can I just accept all that as co
incidence?”

  Cindy shook her head slowly. “And why drag me along?”

  Hannibal ran his fingertips softly down her spine to finally cup her bottom against the mattress. “I guess I just figured we needed some time away together. And there’s something over there I’d like to show you.”

  -18-

  FRIDAY

  A voice filtered through Hannibal’s sleep-fogged brain telling him to bring his seat to the upright position and fasten his safety belt. His watch told him it was five minutes after five in the morning. A flight attendant announced that the local time was eleven-oh-five. Cindy’s head lifted from his shoulders.

  “Why don’t you reset your watch, Cin? I’ll stay on Eastern time.”

  Cindy smiled into his face as their Boeing 737’s tires skidded, and then rolled onto the runway. “I liked the way yesterday started a lot better.”

  Hannibal agreed, although after their relaxed and unhurried lovemaking it had turned out to be a busy day. They had gone together to explain their plan to Bea. She was surprisingly agreeable to any straw clutching Hannibal might have in mind as long as she knew Dean would be hospitalized. Cindy had gone alone to explain the situation to Dan Balor, senior partner in her law firm. With Dean as a client, and Bea picking up the tab, he had agreed to let her arrange for tickets and hotel accommodations through the firm. Hannibal had visited Mrs. Peters again to get her home address and phone number. She thought he might convince her husband to attend his son’s funeral. He made no effort to persuade her either way. And at seven p.m. their plane lifted off from Dulles Airport and they settled down for the first airline dinner of the trip.

  Hannibal tucked into his seat and went to sleep almost immediately after the meal. They were diving into the early morning sun over London before he learned that Cindy had sat awake almost two hours longer then he did. Seven in the morning was two o’clock to their bodies. Cindy had no interest in breakfast so they spent the hour and a half in Heathrow Airport watching other planes come in. Cindy dozed a bit while Hannibal drank British coffee, which is a transitional step between typical American blends and the stronger European grinds and, to Hannibal’s way of thinking, a good explanation of why British citizens still drink a lot more tea then coffee.

  The hop to Germany was barely as long as the London layover, but they passed into another time zone to further confuse their systems. After they landed, Hannibal’s first stop was a vending machine that turned his American cash into German Marks. Then they stopped at one of the numerous stands in the Frankfurt Main for breakfast. It was close to noon, so breakfast consisted of a fat sausage Hannibal recommended. They ate on their way to the Avis booth to pick up their car, each carrying an overnight bag. Cindy babbled, something Hannibal only knew her to do when she was over tired.

  “What a rude people,” she said under her breath. “They stare at you, or ignore you, and they don’t know how to smile, do they?”

  “Really?” Hannibal said through his bratwurst. “I don’t find them rude at all. Maybe they’re staring because they don’t see too many Latin beauties like you come through here.”

  In fact, Hannibal found Frankfurt Main very much like New York’s Kennedy Airport. The decor, the hustling crowds, even the general layout of the sprawling terminal seemed very American to him. And the people looked and dressed like New Yorkers. He actually missed being surrounded by people who clearly had someplace to go and wanted to get there.

  “Well, maybe it’s easy for you because you speak their ugly language,” Cindy said. In fact, Hannibal had hardly noticed that he ordered their food in fluent German. Once on the ground, with his mother’s language pouring into his ears, it came as second nature.

  Cindy began to relax when they had found their way out of the parking lot and were on their way down the A5 Autobahn toward Heidelberg in a rented Volkswagen Jetta. An hour’s worth of countryside flew past, looking more like New England than Virginia, and when they turned off the highway she actually smiled.

  “Well, is this more like it?” Hannibal asked as he slowed to a stoplight. “If I wanted to sell Germany to anyone, I’d always start them off in Heidelberg.”

  The Hotel Neu Heidelberg looked like an overgrown cottage, its peaked roof and wraparound porch reminiscent of the houses in Smurf Village. The woman at the desk greeted them in English, asking if they were new to her city. Hannibal explained that while it was Cindy’s first visit to Heidelberg, he grew up in Germany as an American military dependent and knew the town pretty well. The remark seemed to increase his popularity.

  Their hostess was older, heavyset and very Aryan in appearance, but she welcomed them with the kind of smile and grace one gets in America only when one has a platinum card or serves in public office. Minutes later they were installed in a room Cindy admitted was comfortable and downright cozy. She was particularly pleased that the furnishings were clearly individual, not part of a stock of hotel furniture. She would have been happy to sit for a while and catch her breath, but Hannibal was anxious to get on with the mission, as he put it.

  * * *

  The Peters home was a modest brick structure perched on a slight rise, far enough north of the hotel that they had a clear view of the sparkling waters of the Neckar River. Hannibal expected Cindy’s attention to be arrested by the river that dominates the city, but instead it was on the door they were approaching.

  “Don’t you think we should have called first?” Cindy asked as they walked up the path between carefully tended flowerbeds.

  “He’s expecting us,” Hannibal said. “Mrs. Peters called and he said he’d be home this afternoon to talk to us. Calling would have given him the opportunity to cancel.”

  Hannibal lifted the heavy doorknocker and let it drop against the wood panel twice, then waited. Any soldier would have identified the man who opened the door seconds later as a sergeant major, regardless of his lack of uniform. Foster Peters wore a well-pressed white shirt and charcoal slacks that matched the hair at the sides of his head. The gray at his temples graded up to hair as black and shiny as his shoes. The man stood ramrod-straight, his dark eyes boring right through Hannibal’s dark glasses. Hannibal tried to be subtle as he straightened his posture.

  “You’re the people who knew Oscar,” Foster said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes sir,” Hannibal said. “Your charming wife told me we could have a few minutes with you this afternoon. I’m Hannibal Jones and this is Cindy Santiago.”

  “Come in,” Foster said. He shook Hannibal’s hand, nodded to Cindy and executed a smooth about face. “I can offer you some refreshment. But please don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”

  He led them through a front room that clearly was his wife’s area. All the collectibles were there: the cuckoo clock, the hand-carved miniatures, the Hummel figurines. But when they entered the den, Hannibal knew this was the man’s space. The displays on the walls were military awards, or commemorative firearms, or paintings with a military or hunting theme. Foster stepped behind the bar and busied himself without looking at them.

  “I know we’re less than an hour from the Weinstrasse, the heart of the German wine country. But the term ‘German wine country’ never made much sense to me, anyway, so how about a beer? I’ve got some Rauch bier on tap.”

  “Rauch?” Hannibal asked. “As in German for smoke?” Foster cocked an eyebrow, so Hannibal added, “I’m an army brat, sergeant major. Grew up in Berlin.”

  Foster nodded, then drew three schooners from a home tap and placed them evenly in a rank across the bar. “Berlin used to be a good town. Like Frankfurt was. Twice the military city Heidelberg will ever be. This place loves its tourists too much. But USAREUR moved here back in ninety-four and after twenty-five years the Army had become my life I guess. Got a good civilian job with V Corps after I retired.” He and Hannibal lifted their glasses and drank together. The brew was almost black, with a yeasty aroma and smoky flavor that combined to make it one of the best beers Han
nibal had ever tasted.

  Cindy tapped his elbow. “Who moved here?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “You-sar-your?”

  “It’s an acronym, honey,” Hannibal replied. “It stands for United States Army, Europe. See? USAREUR.”

  “Oh.” She sipped from her glass, gave a polite smiled, and put it down. Foster looked at her as if his suspicions had been confirmed. Then he pointedly ignored her, turning his attention to Hannibal.

  “But you didn’t come all this way to hear about local military history. What’d you want to ask an old soldier like me?”

  Hannibal really wanted to ask how a man could miss his own son’s funeral. Instead he leaned an elbow on the bar and said, “I understand that you led the investigation into the death of a woman named Carla Donner some years ago. It seems Oscar disagreed with the official reports. Would you be willing to tell me what really happened?”

  At the mention of the name Donner, Hannibal could see Foster stiffen and draw himself even straighter, if that was possible. His weathered face grew harder, like cement setting into granite. His eyes focused on Hannibal’s face and he hardly blinked as he spoke.

  “The case was a simple one, albeit tragic. Carla was alone in the house. She slipped in the tub, banged her head against the edge and drowned. End of story. Oscar, well Oscar was confused about some things.”

  “I see,” Hannibal said, raising his glass again. It was good beer, but he hardly tasted it now.

  As if she had received a secret signal, Cindy spoke up. “You knew the Donners, didn’t you?”

  “Gil Donner was a good friend,” Foster said. “And still is. While I had to investigate his wife’s death, I had to get him through the ordeal.”

  “Friends of the family,” Hannibal said. “So Oscar knew them as well?”