“Actually, I’m thinking an accomplice. Maybe his partner, come to tell him it was time to move on to the next vulnerable mark.”
“Hannibal, if you think this Dean guy is a con man just getting close to her to get into her bank account, then why’d he run?”
Hannibal considered the question while he chewed. “Who knows? Maybe the woman’s a spotter who has an even better mark set up for him. Or maybe the police are on his trail and getting a little too close for comfort. He might need to just disappear for while. Lots of possible reasons.”
“Okay,” she said, not willing to let it go and just enjoy dinner. “Suppose you’re right. He’s just a con man. She’s in love with him, and he’s gone for good. In that case, why find him at all?”
“Because, Cindy dear, that is what I’m being paid to do.”
* * *
Less than a thirty-minute drive took Hannibal to the offices of NWS8 in Springfield, Virginia. Five minutes of friendly chat with several members of the skeleton staff on duty got him to what they called the edit tank where Kate Andrews was working.
“Ms. Andrews?” Hannibal called, reluctant to break her concentration.
When she turned to face him, her piercing eyes moved over his entire body, from top to bottom, scanning him into her memory banks. The soft, open persona she projected on television was totally absent. In this woman’s out-thrust jaw and pointed nose he read the kind of dogged determination that so often makes a good detective. And he supposed that in some ways, that was what a good reporter was.
“And you’re Hannibal Jones,” Kate said, “and you need my help and it has to do with the feature I made last weekend which first aired Monday morning. You’re not police. I don’t think a lawyer. Maybe related to someone I interviewed but.... no. A private detective?”
Her stately frame leaned naturally forward and her eyes didn’t blink as often as they should. It was a rare person who could put Hannibal off balance, but here stood one of them. “Private, yes,” he said. “I can see you’re busy, but I’m hoping you’ll take a minute to print me out a still photo from that video.”
Kate looked over her shoulder at her editor, who waved her on. She tossed her scarlet locks and motioned for Hannibal to follow her. Her strut seemed exaggerated to him, and accented by the tightness of her jeans, but her walk was so forceful and aggressive it lost all sensuousness. Under her breath she mumbled, “I wish you guys would all get together on these things.”
They entered another edit cell, smaller than eight by ten feet, the two long walls lined with lights, levers and buttons that reminded Hannibal of the controls of the Starship Enterprise. Kate handed Hannibal a pad of preprinted forms and a pen.
“You’ll have to fill that out when I give you the picture,” she said. Then she pulled a videotape from a wall rack and dropped into a chair. She pushed the tape, thinner but longer and wider than a VHS cassette, into a machine and her fingers began to play over a bank of controls, shuttling around the tape, looking for the right story.
“You shoot in Beta format?” Hannibal asked.
“Right,” Kate said. “Beta SP actually. The boys shoot on little twenty-minute cassettes, but each reporter can archive their stories on one of these sixties. You know something about this stuff?”
“Not really,” Hannibal said, watching the blurred images fly past on a small monitor. “Do people ask you to do this all the time?”
The images slowed and an anchor came into view, introducing the story. “Actually it’s pretty rare,” Kate said. “Not many people even know we can do this. But I had to print out a still for somebody else from this particular story a few days ago. In fact it was Monday night, not long after we aired it. The usual thing, they wanted a clear picture of a relative. I assume that’s not your purpose.”
“No, I need copies to distribute. The person we’re looking for has come up missing.”
“Oh, well in that case you want more than a print.” Servomotors whined as Kate put the tape player into normal speed. She pushed her wheeled chair a few feet to the side and punched a button, starting a computer. “Once you pick out the image I’ll copy it to a floppy. You can get as many copies of that digital image as you want from lots of places.”
“Appreciate it,” Hannibal said, watching the action move along, watching Bea come into view, and the zoom he’d seen before, to lock onto Dean’s face. “That’s our boy.”
“Really?” Kate said, stretching the word for out for three or four seconds. She was moving the tape forward and back. Seen one frame at a time, it looked very much like a piece of motion picture film going past.
“A lot to choose from,” Hannibal said. “I thought the sequence was shorter.”
“At thirty frames a second, there are a lot of images to choose from. But this is the best one.” She pushed more buttons, and a variety of hums and clicks started. “So what’s up with this fellow? He in some kind of trouble or something?”
“Like I said, he’s missing,” Hannibal said. “If there’s more to the story, I don’t know it yet.”
Kate lapsed into silence while she gathered the print of Dean’s face and the floppy disc she had loaded the image onto. Then she left the room. Hannibal followed her into a cubicle barely big enough to stand and turn around in. The desk she sat at was covered with papers, most of which bore a small precise handwriting he assumed was hers. She gestured to a chair in the next cubicle, and Hannibal dragged it over. He sat, crossed his legs, flipped the top page on the forms pad over and began to fill in the requested information.
“Not yet,” Kate repeated. “Well, the woman who came Monday wanted a shot of the same boy.” Direct and to the point. Hannibal liked that. “She said she was related, but now I have to wonder.”
Hannibal kept writing. He wasn’t sure yet how he should handle this. What was this young reporter after?
Kate moved a bit closer. Not the kind of closeness that implies intimacy, but rather the kind that applies a subtle pressure. “Look, just tell me if there’s a story here, huh? I don’t want to do festivals in the park the rest of my life.”
Now he knew. He didn’t think he had anything newsworthy, but this woman might be helpful if she thought there could be something in it for her. He gave his answer careful consideration, because lying would be counterproductive. “Miss Andrews, I’ve been on this case only a few hours. Right now it’s a man who’s run away without telling his fiancée. Not much there, but it could be anything. What if he’s running from the law? Or from the mob? Or the woman you met earlier in the week could be his sister, separated at birth, searching for him.”
“Not likely,” Kate said. “This woman looked a couple decades older than your boy there.”
“Really?” Hannibal said. He sat quite still, his hands on the arms of his chair, but the middle finger of his left hand began to tap up and down. “Blonde woman, on the thin side?”
“That’s right, bottle blonde. Brown eyes. Long, conservative cut flowered dress. Makeup carefully applied. And there is something going on here.”
“Won’t know until I find him will I?” Hannibal asked, handing over the completed form. Kate scanned the form the same way she had scanned Hannibal. He braced to stand, but her upraised hand stopped him.
“Just two questions. Please. First, is Jones your real name?” In response Hannibal handed her one of his simple white cards. There wasn’t much there: His name, address, telephone number and the word “Troubleshooter” in bold block letters.
“I think I may have heard something about you,” Kate said. “All right. If. If this turns out to be a story that could be of general interest. If it does, will you call me?”
Hannibal stood and removed his glasses. She stared at his eyes, the way they often did. “If this ends up on the news in any way, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’re the reporter who breaks it, okay?”
“Fair enough,” Kate said rising and extending her hand. Hannibal accepted it and the strong handshake
that came with it. “And you’re a story in yourself, aren’t you? A black man with blue eyes. Or are they?”
* * *
Hannibal drove just two blocks away from the television station before he pulled to the curb again. His instincts told him that Kate was a good reporter, and right now that was a bad thing. He had gotten lucky and tripped over a clue to Dean’s location. But she had the clue as well, and if she got involved she might chase it all away.
He flipped on the interior light and unfolded the form he had pocketed on his way to Kate’s desk. It had been on top of the pad of forms he filled out. Feeling a bit childish, Hannibal pulled a pencil from his glove compartment and began rubbing the side of the point across the form. Of course there was no way to be sure the woman who wanted Dean’s picture was the last person to fill one of these out. But it seemed a pretty secure guess.
A woman’s flowery script slowly came into view. The name was Mary Irons. The address looked to be a hotel room on Richmond Highway, just south of Alexandria. That made sense if Hannibal’s theory was correct. He turned off the light and put his car into gear. He knew Kate could find the same address in Channel 8’s files in the morning. She might be tempted to go looking for the thin blonde woman and chase her away. With luck, he could pin Dean down tonight, before Kate went looking for the mystery woman tomorrow.
On his way through the darkened streets, Hannibal popped an old Elton John CD into his player and began to rethink his position. Why would Dean’s accomplice need his picture from the news? Perhaps just to prove to him he wasn’t keeping a low enough profile. Was that a good reason to tell him to move on? Maybe, but the idea wasn’t hanging together as well as it once had.
It made even less sense as Hannibal pulled into the Alexandria Motel’s parking area. The motel was one long building, one story tall and one room wide, sitting with its short side facing the street but at an off angle. Its front doors faced the back of a brick building, a Chinese restaurant judging from the smell of the dumpsters. Peeling white paint covered the structure, and a row of narrow pillars supported a short overhang in front of the dozen or so doors. In the dying sunlight the place almost looked haunted, but he figured the only spirit around there was the ghost of disuse. Hannibal drove past the target door and parked at the far end of the drive. When he shut his car door it created an ominous echo, the sound bouncing between the motel and the back of the restaurant.
Hannibal knocked on the door of the room registered to Mary Irons, then stepped back from it. He had no idea what to expect but he was sure of one thing. No successful confidence man or woman would stay here. This was not the motel room of anyone fleecing wealthy marks.
When the door opened inward Hannibal was faced with another surprise, a man wearing only jeans and a belligerent expression.
“Yeah?” was all the man said. He was Hannibal’s height but a bit bulkier. Steel gray hair topped a swarthy Mediterranean face. Ink black eyebrows formed a pitched roof above dark eyes that were always looking for trouble. Hannibal guessed they had seen a lot of it. A mass of steel wool cluttered the man’s chest. A tattoo of a rose covered his left shoulder, and a chain tattoo wrapped his right biceps.
“You must be Mister Irons,” Hannibal said with a small smile.
“So?”
Friendly sort, Hannibal thought. “I need to speak to Mary if you don’t mind.”
The man squared his shoulders, sending a universal message. “She ain’t here. Beat it.” His breath threw the odor of stale beer into Hannibal’s face.
“Look, this is a matter of some importance.” Hannibal held his hands out in a gesture of peace. He hoped it was less obvious that he was also bracing for an attack.
“I said get lost,” Irons said, his voice low. His right foot moved forward and the heel of his right hand slammed out for Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal stood his ground and clamped both his hands over Irons’. By twisting slightly he locked Irons’ elbow. Then Hannibal leaned forward, not hard but just enough. Startled, the bigger man found himself driven to his knees.
“Who’s there, Harry?” A woman’s voice called from inside.
Harry looked up at Hannibal and shook his head from side to side. It was a small movement, indicating that he was ready to concede rather than have his woman see him in this position. Well, no point in embarrassing him. Besides, Hannibal wondered how much he knew. He released Harry’s hand and raised his voice. “I’m Hannibal Jones and I’d like just a moment of your time, ma’am. It’s about your photography order.”
Harry snapped up to his full height. Hannibal stood on the other side of the portal in the outside world and watched Harry’s eyes, as Harry watched his. The standoff lasted forever. Then, three minutes later, the woman spoke again very close behind Harry.
“Honey, would you excuse us for a minute? Please?” Harry turned and although Hannibal couldn’t see his face, he could imagine what was there. The woman raised a hand to his cheek, smiled and whispered, “It’s all right. I promise.”
Harry walked back into the shabby room and the woman stepped forward across the threshold.
“Mary Irons?” Hannibal asked.
“Who are you and why are you here? No one knows me here.”
Hannibal handed her his card, and waited for her to read it and try to imagine his purpose. If she did, she was not about to let him know.
“What’s this about, Mister Jones?” she asked, easing the door closed behind her.
“I think you know. You wanted a photo of Dean Edwards. Then you went and visited him. I’d like to know why.”
She took a minute to appear to be searching her memory. “Dean Edwards? I’m not sure I know him. Friend of yours?”
The harsh shadows of twilight didn’t help her one bit. Dark roots held her thin yellow hair in place. Makeup could not conceal the lines of worry, of fear, of living etched into her face. Not a hard woman, he decided, not a criminal. Yet there was a steel rod at her center, deep down. And much of her surface tenderness had been worn away somehow. All that aside, he was certain that she was no confidence woman. She was, in fact, an abysmal liar.
“I’m not accusing you of a crime, ma’am. But I have an eyewitness who says you were at his house Saturday morning from about ten-thirty to maybe eleven a.m. You waited until his fiancée had left for a shopping trip. Shall I describe what you were wearing?”
She was jumpy as a caged hamster, and she reacted to his words as if they were a series of blows. Her china blue eyes appeared chipped. “No, that won’t be necessary. I guess you must mean that boy I saw Saturday. He wasn’t who I thought he was.”
“Really? And who did you think he was?” Hannibal turned away and took a small step away to ease the pressure on her. She followed, maintaining a constant two-foot distance. Then they were walking together.
“Someone else,” she said. “Someone I knew a long time ago. I’ve been away a long time, Mister Jones. People change over the course of a decade.”
Now that she was talking, Hannibal decided to be quiet for a minute to see what fell out. Most people hate silence. It is often the interrogator’s best weapon. While he waited, he examined her body language and posture. She had been a hellcat once, he decided, but something had squeezed that out of her. From what little he knew of Dean Edwards, this woman was more likely to be one of his old victims than his old partner. Someone had hurt her deeply, and it could well have been Dean.
Just as he was about to give up on quiet, she said, “Look, Mister, I don’t want any trouble and I hope you won’t tell that young man where I am. Harry and me, we’re trying to keep a low profile here, okay?”
She didn’t know Dean was gone. She probably thought he sent Hannibal looking for her. They turned and headed back toward the door. It was open a crack and Hannibal saw one of Harry’s eyes in the dark space. When they reached the end of their little stroll, Hannibal positioned himself so that the woman’s body blocked Harry’s view of him. He handed her one of his cards.
&nbs
p; “If you think of anything you think someone ought to know, give me a call, okay?” he said. “I don’t know what this Dean Edwards might be involved in, but it could reach out and touch you too.”
* * *
Sitting in his car in the gathering gloom, Hannibal took a moment to wonder why on earth he had felt the need for that burst of honesty. He had no idea who Mary and Harry were or how they tied into Dean’s story. He didn’t think they could be hiding him, but they must be part of his past. Unless of course she was telling him the truth.
Hannibal turned the key, listening for a moment to the engine’s smooth purr, but before he could put the car into gear a pair of hands slapped down on the hood. Harry Irons stood in front of him, as if suicide were his only option to prove his superiority. The woman was nowhere in sight. Hannibal turned off the engine, tugged his gloves on tighter, and opened the door.
“Do we have unfinished business?” he asked, stepping out of the car.
“Not like you think,” Harry said. He leaned back against the car and pulled out a Zippo lighter. He dragged hard and deep on a Winston, letting the smoke escape his nose. Hannibal saw Harry as a man of traditions. This was a ritual to set up a conversation. Man to man talk. Hannibal leaned against the door, his arms crossed.
“You ever done time, Jones?”
“Can’t say I have, Harry,” Hannibal replied. “But some close friends have told me what it does to you.”
Harry’s face clouded over and he stared at his feet. He held his cigarette like Sinatra. “You got a woman, Jones?”
“Yes, I have a woman.”
“Love her?” Harry asked, looking at Hannibal out the corner of his eye.
Hannibal grinned. “As a matter of fact I do.”
“He could have any young chippy he wants, you know,” Harry said, his eyes on a cloud in the night sky. “Don’t bring him around here to take mine. I been taking care of Mary for almost a year now. It hasn’t been easy for her. But she’s got what she needs.”
“Then he’s out of her past,” Hannibal said.
Collateral Damage Page 4
