Pyramid Deception

by Austin S. Camacho

  Looking backward he saw that he had sprinted nearly a quarter mile trying to catch the sedan. Cursing under his breath, Hannibal began a slow walk back to the site of the killing. After a few steps he pulled out his cell phone. He considered calling Cindy, but first things first. He pushed a button to dial one of the numbers he had programmed into the phone.

  “Fairfax County Police Department.”

  “Hello. This is Hannibal Jones, I’m a private investigator and I need to report a murder.”

  The Fairfax County Police Department provided law enforcement services to the citizens of Fairfax County, most of whom lived in towns too small to support a force of their own. The woman on the phone was very polite and businesslike. She walked down the list of questions although he was sure she dispatched a patrol vehicle as soon as he gave his location.

  Hannibal broke into a slow jog as soon as he hung up. Sweat was sticking him to his clothes and his feet hurt from running in dress shoes, but he felt as though he deserved some discomfort right then. He had discounted Irene’s fear as paranoia and now she was dead. The insult to his pride at having someone murdered right in front of him was fading and he felt ashamed of that reaction. He had lost his best lead to recovering Cindy’s money. More importantly, a woman was dead. A woman whose only crime had been trying to help him.

  Hannibal’s steps were heavy as he headed back into the shopping center lot. The bar on the end was closed and probably was when he ran past the first time. No corroborating witness there. He trudged wearily back toward the far end of the strip mall, his head hanging. That was why he was almost back to the table and chairs when he realized that Irene was gone.

  Was this someone’s idea of a sick prank? The body was gone, literally without a trace. There was no blood stain on the cement. He knelt beside the place where he had pressed his gloved fingers against Irene’s throat. In the dim light he would never see a stray hair or any other physical evidence but he would surely see blood.

  Could she be involved in espionage, he wondered. Spy teams sometimes traveled with cleanup crews. No, that was a stretch. Going all around your elbow, he thought to himself. Occam’s razor would lead him to go with the simplest theory until he proved it wrong. Any reasonably smart shooter could have had friends nearby to rush in and clean up his mess while Hannibal was gone. How long did it take him to get back to the shopping center? Five minutes? For all he knew, the shooter could have driven back around to the crime scene, cleaned up his mess and taken off again.

  The police car that pulled into the shopping center was not sounding its siren or spinning its roof lights. But its headlights wrapped around Hannibal, pinning him in place until the car stopped. Only then did Hannibal notice that the police car was parked right next to the spot Irene’s car should have been in.

  The two uniformed white officers who got out of the car could have been brothers, or, Hannibal thought, members of the same chorus line. They were his height, six feet tall, medium build, with stringy blond hair peeking out from under their hats. One name tag said Dickens, the other Edwards. They probably stood side by side in muster formations. Both men approached with their hands on their holstered weapons. Hannibal stood slowly, keeping his hands waist high and in plain sight.

  “You the guy called in the homicide?” Officer Dickens asked.

  “Yes, officer. May I give you my card?” Dickens nodded. Hannibal pulled his jacket open enough to reach the lower inside pocket where he kept his cards, but not enough for the cops to see his shoulder holster. He handed the card to Dickens who read it, then handed it to his partner.

  “A private detective, eh?” Edwards said. “What brings you out here? And where did the alleged homicide take place?”

  “I came here to meet a client,” Hannibal said. “And this is the murder scene.” He pointed to the spot on the cement where Irene’s head had landed. Dickens squatted down to examine the spot, then looked up at Hannibal.

  “I was talking to her when she was killed. I gave chase but the shooter got away from me. When I got back she was gone. And believe me, I know how this all sounds.”

  “Do you?” Dickens asked. “There would be blood. And no one reported a shooting.”

  “You said you came here to meet her,” Edwards said. So she didn’t arrive with you. How did she get here?”

  Hannibal shook his head, looking down at the ground. “She drove, but her car’s gone too.”

  Edwards pulled out a note pad and began scribbling notes. “Your client’s name?”

  “Mrs. Irene Monroe.” The policemen looked at each other. Hannibal felt the cool evening air slipping in through his clothes. It was way too quiet for the night of a murder. Dickens cleared his throat, as if being professional and keeping a straight face was proving a challenge for him.

  “Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Jones,” he said. “We’ll file a full report but, considering the hour, I think we’ll speak with Mr. Monroe in the morning.”

  “In the morning? People will be tramping all over this place as soon as the stores open. Look, does either of you know Orson Rissik?”

  “Is he patrol?” Edwards asked.

  Hannibal blew out a frustrated puff of air. “He’s a detective in your Major Crimes unit.”

  Both uniforms shook their heads. Dickens said, “We can find him in the morning if you think it will help. In the meantime, Mr. Jones, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town. We’ll want to get more details from you tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” Hannibal said. “So, is there a hotel in this town?”

  Again the policemen looked at each other. Then Edwards said, “Well, there’s the Hyatt Regency in Reston. It’s maybe four or five miles from here.”

  “Fine,” Hannibal said. “The computer in the car will find it for me. You guys get on back to whatever important stuff you were doing before I ruined your night.”

  The patrolmen didn’t rise to Hannibal’s sarcasm, which for some reason he found even more frustrating. They climbed back into their patrol car and drove away, leaving Hannibal alone with the questions. Who knew Irene Monroe was planning to meet him there that night? If the shooter doubled back to grab Irene’s body, who took her car? And why did he or she leave Hannibal alive?

  -5-

  The hotel’s restaurant was called the Market Street Bar and Grill. Tastefully decorated with hardwood floors and crisp table linen, the restaurant made you think the hotel had sprung from it instead of the reverse.

  It opened for breakfast at 6:30 and Hannibal was their first customer of the day. The service was swift and courteous, but Hannibal was almost too distracted to notice. Even while he was ordering his mind was on the previous evening’s events and his decision not to call Cindy. It was late by the time he was on his way to the Hyatt Regency, but she would have wanted to know everything. Still, what could he tell her? He had lost his only lead. Her friend Jason had lost his lover. And Hannibal was at a loss for how to proceed.

  The open-air kitchen allowed Hannibal to watch the man in white chef’s gear labor artistically over his omelet. Two or three other diners entered and were seated as far from each other as possible. This was the custom in the U.S., Hannibal knew, so unlike the Germany he grew up in. Back home, strangers clung together in restaurants to share meals.

  Breakfast arrived quickly, and Hannibal drank in the sharp and sweet aroma of peppers, onions, mushrooms, and a pungent cheese that may have been Monterey Jack. A good breakfast made the worst day start well.

  He was chewing the very first forkful when two men entered who must have been looking for him. He knew because he recognized them from the night before. Dickens and Edwards looked as if they could both use a nap. They were still in uniform so it must have been a long night. It was okay. Aside from the fact that he wore no gloves Hannibal was also dressed exactly as he was when he met them. Of course, he had showered and changed since then, except for his suit. He guessed that his police visitors had not been so lucky.

  “Mr.
Jones, I’m going to have to ask you to come with us,” Dickens said.

  “Well, you don’t have to ask me anything,” Hannibal said, sipping his orange juice. “You could sit down and have some cantaloupe with me. But I imagine that your bosses have figured out what happened and have developed a sense of urgency.”

  “Sir,” Edwards said with a slight edge to his voice, “We’ll be happy to drive you to headquarters. It has been a long night and there are a couple of men in Fairfax who are eager to meet you.”

  Hannibal was familiar with that tone. He put his fork down with great care and stood very slowly until his nose was just a couple inches from Edwards’ face. He voice was low but hard.

  “Do you think I’m a felon, Officer Edwards? Are you here to arrest me? If so, let’s snap on the cuffs and get moving. If not, then whoever is waiting for me can wait five more minutes while I finish this breakfast I just paid for. My night was long too. I watched a woman gunned down in front of me and I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not. You want my cooperation, you sit your ass down and have a cup of coffee until I’m done.”

  Edwards and Dickens ushered Hannibal into an office in the Fairfax County government complex on Chain Bridge Road. The uniforms stayed outside, and only two men waited inside. It was a medium sized office just down the hall from the one he was so familiar with.

  The Burly man behind the desk wore a Dick Tracy scowl and sat forward with his elbows on some scattered paperwork. His name plate said Detective Robert Carlton. Buzz cut hair and half an unlit cigar in his mouth made him a boring cliché.

  The other man was far more interesting. First of all, he was black, but just a shade darker than Hannibal and a little slimmer. His hair was a very short Afro, carefully styled. His tailored suit and shoes were both stylish and expensive. He stood immediately when Hannibal entered but didn’t offer a hand. Instead, his sharp, piercing brown eyes raked over Hannibal, evaluating and appraising. Hannibal felt briefly like a mouse that had caught the attention of some monstrous snake. They stood in the detective’s office, but the other man spoke first.

  “You are Jones?”

  “That’s right,” Hannibal said. “And you are?”

  “George Washington Monroe.” Still no hand offered. “Where’s my wife?”

  A lot became clearer to Hannibal in that moment, and little comments and reactions from Irene and the police became clear. And Monroe’s voice made it clear that he was used to getting answers when he asked questions.

  “Mr. Monroe, I am very sorry. If there was anything I could have done…”

  “What did you do with the car, boy?” Carlton asked.

  Hannibal spun on the detective, resting a hand on the standard cheap county desk. “You mean you haven’t found her car yet? Have you looked for it? And what about the crime scene? There has to be something there.”

  “Give it up, bud,” Carlton said. “You think we’re stupid? You gave the boys a good show, but the games up.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got to admit, your presence shows unexpected wit for my wife,” Monroe said. He moved in front of the window so his pinstriped form was backlit, making his face hard to see. “If we were chasing around after murderers and a corpse she would have a lot more time to disappear. Unfortunately, I am not so gullible. I have already verified that they bought tickets to Canada at the train station in Alexandria late yesterday afternoon.”

  Hannibal looked away while his mind reconfigured the data. These men didn’t think he was crazy. They thought he was part of some conspiracy to help Irene Monroe escape the area. And like most people, they probably thought all private detectives were for hire for any questionable game. Assuming that Monroe was not responsible for his wife’s murder, he would have no reason to believe she was dead.

  “They?” Hannibal asked, looking up. “You said they bought tickets.”

  “Yes,” Monroe said, stepping toward Hannibal, as menacing as a man his size could be. “She and that asshole boyfriend of hers. The young lawyer, Jason Moore. How could she think I wouldn’t know? But by the time I found out they were on the train it was arriving in Ontario. They could be out of the country, or they could have gotten off at any stop along the way. New York is only six hours away. Now, where are they?”

  By the time he reached the end of his tirade, Monroe was directly in front of Hannibal, his fists raised as if he was about to grab Hannibal’s lapels. Perhaps the fact that Hannibal had not taken a single step backward told Monroe that to grab him would be a bad idea. The two men faced each other like boxers in the ring before the bell goes off. Hannibal reached up to slip his glasses off and lock eyes with Monroe.

  “I have no idea where your wife is, sport. And I have no time or patience for any man who calls me a liar.”

  “Hey, back off a bit there, Wash,” Carlton said. So, they were on a first-name basis. Not good, Hannibal thought. Monroe took a small step backward. Hannibal smelled expensive cologne and wondered how many men would take the trouble to wear it if they were on their way to the police station because of a missing wife.

  “So you’re convinced she got on a train in Alexandria,” Hannibal said. “So, because of that, no one has even tried to find her body. The trick you suspect worked, asshole, only in reverse.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Carlton said. Hannibal ignored him.

  “Buying a ticket doesn’t mean boarding a train, you know.”

  “No, Monroe said, “but an eye witness does. Plus, the police found Moore’s little hybrid piece of shit in the train station parking lot. Now again, where is Irene and where have you hidden her Lexis?”

  Ice formed in Hannibal’s stomach and he turned to Carlton. “You found Jason’s car? This is not good, chief. You’ve got to get back to that crime scene. Turn your forensics team loose. The slug might even be there, in that little wooded space between the buildings.”

  “I told you, you need to give it up,” Carlton said, leaning back in his chair and raising his hands behind his head. “Now why don’t you tell us where they were headed before I decide to hold you for obstruction?”

  Hannibal’s hands trembled with frustration as he pushed his glasses back into place. “Obstruction of what? If my story’s a lie, then you’ve got no reason to believe a crime was even committed, so what am I obstructing? Maybe you could claim I was interfering with your investigation if there was one, but I’m damned if I can see any investigation going on. And since I’m the only one who saw the lady’s head hit the sidewalk, maybe I better start one.”

  Hannibal burst out the door and rushed past the two patrolmen in the hall. The fact that no one followed him to his car confirmed his appraisal of the situation. He wasn’t regarded as a witness because no one recognized the crime he had witnessed. He beeped his black Volvo S60 open, dropped inside, started the engine and hit the button for the car phone. He needed to talk to a cop who would take him seriously.

  “Orson Rissik,” he said. The autodial began beeping the necessary ten tones while he pointed his vehicle east toward The District. He needed to see his woman, but even more pressing was his need to see Jason Moore.

  -6-

  The law offices of Baylor, Truman and Ray were their usual beehive of commotion when Hannibal arrived. He was so familiar a sight there that secretaries and assistants all but ignored him but on this occasion a sharp call from the office manager stopped him on his way to Cindy’s office.

  “Mr. Jones.” Mrs. Abrogast’s voice cut through the buzz of activity. Mrs. Abrogast was the five-foot-two, blue-haired dynamo that kept the worker bees on task and in line, and she was the only person Hannibal knew whose stone visage could hold an arrogant smirk and an impatient scowl at the same time. Hannibal reported to her desk, as he had in the past, to accept a scolding.

  “Ms. Santiago is upset about something,” Mrs. Abrogast said. “She’s off her game and not leading the junior associates the way she usually does. Death in the family? Ill
ness? What?”

  Hannibal smiled and dared to rest a gloved palm on her shoulder. “Yes, I’m worried about her too, but it’s none of those things. She’s having some personal issues.”

  “Well, fix it,” Mrs. Abrogast said, staring into his eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Is Jason Moore in the office?”

  “He hasn’t been in today. And he left earlier than usual yesterday. Does he have something to do with Ms. Santiago’s issues?”

  Hannibal nodded. “Is he at home?”

  “It’s not my day to watch him,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. But at the same time her right hand poked three buttons on her telephone, which was nearly as big as a computer keyboard. She never took her eyes off Hannibal’s face. He heard the tones of dialing, three rings, and then Jason’s voice explaining that he was out and inviting the caller to leave a message. She disconnected the line.

  “I need to see Cindy right away,” Hannibal said.

  Mrs. Abrogast waved him on. “And when you find young Mr. Moore, you send him to me.”

  Hannibal moved down the hall to Cindy’s office, tapped the door twice and entered. She looked up from a legal pad she was writing on behind her desk. He closed the door behind himself and stood just in front of it. He could never before remember seeing his Cindy in her office with a stray lock of hair hanging in front of her face. At home it was cute but here it was somehow chilling.

  “You didn’t call,” she said.

  “I got in late last night, and this morning I’ve been with the police. Where’s Jason?”

  Her chair squeaked as she slowly stood. “The police? What’s going on? Jason didn’t come in today, and he’s not answering his phone. Mr. Baylor will be furious.”

  “Baby, I’m not sure what’s going on yet.” Hannibal crossed to Cindy, took her hands and eased her back down into her chair. “But I know we need to try to find Jason. The police have evidence that he ran off with Irene. Do you know any of his friends or family?”