Collateral Damage

by Austin S. Camacho

  Beside him, Cindy was no more relaxed. In fact, she fidgeted constantly, shifting in her seat as if she was afraid her nylons might permanently weld themselves to the car seat if she sat still for any length of time. Every so often she would stare at Hannibal but she said nothing. He guessed she had no idea how he could stand this waiting.

  But Hannibal learned about surveillance in the New York City police department, years before he ever applied to the Treasury Department. He remembered hot days and cold nights when he waited for several hours for something to happen. So he settled into his car seat twenty yards from the entrance to the target office building.

  This time he stared through his dark lenses for less than an hour before Gil Donner pushed through the door and stalked down the street, doubtless looking for a taxi. Hannibal watched him move off in the direction of the District until he vanished from sight beyond the fast flowing cross traffic. Then Hannibal left his Volvo and led Cindy through the door Donner had come out of.

  As Hannibal reached for the doorknob to enter the third floor office he realized he could not remember the last time he had seen a door quite like this one. Its stencil read simply, “Walter Young, Attorney” in plain block letters. A single lawyer’s name on the glass top half of the door, in this day of corporate thinking and legal teams. The mark of a man holding with very specific moral beliefs about how law should be practiced. Or, just as likely, the mark of a failure who refused to give up.

  The door swung in as Hannibal reached for it, and he found himself face to face with a beefy man whose hair was cut long on top but short at the back, allowing a few strands to hang across his face in his haste. His tweed suit was cut loose on his stocky frame and his florid Irish face made Hannibal think of Spencer Tracy in those old movies his mother had loved so much.

  “Walt Young, I assume?”

  The man nodded as he shook Hannibal’s offered hand. “Yes, sorry, but I was just on my way out for a late lunch. Why not arrange an appointment with my receptionist?”

  “Sir, it is quite urgent that we speak with you right away,” Cindy said from behind Hannibal. “A man’s life is at stake.”

  “Well yes, isn’t it always?” Young said, yielding no ground despite being no more than a hand’s span from Hannibal’s face. “Doubtless he will survive until after I’ve had lunch.”

  “When I talked to Francis Edwards she gave me the impression that you were more the concerned type,” Hannibal said. “You couldn’t save her, but we hoped you’d help us keep her son from the same fate.

  “You spoke to Francis?” Young asked, taking a step back.

  “Yes,” Hannibal said. “A week ago yesterday. Actually she goes by Mary Irons now, but it was her all right. Miss Santiago here represents her son Dean. He’s accused of a murder very similar to his father’s death.”

  Cindy stepped forward, more fully blocking the door. “Mister Young, we’ve been able to keep Dean out of police hands because he’s emotionally fragile right now, but time is running out. I don’t believe Dean killed anyone, but because of the M.O. the next most likely suspect is his mother. We need your help to sort out the connections between the two murders.”

  Young stared at the two intruders for five silent seconds. Then his shoulders dropped and he turned, waving them into his office. As he passed his receptionist’s desk he muttered, “Alice would you please order in for us all?”

  * * *

  Young’s inner office was tastefully appointed in dark wood. A traditional coat rack stood beside the door. Hannibal noticed the only full-size wooden filing cabinets he could remember seeing. Those, and the absence of a computer in the room, gave him the feeling of falling back to another time. He imagined this was the way Young’s office looked the first time Francis Edwards walked into it.

  “Have a seat,” Young said. He dropped into his own chair and Hannibal and Cindy settled into a pair of ladder-back chairs facing Young’s heavy wooden desk. Young gave an approving smile, but Hannibal was not sure what he was smiling at. Perhaps he simply approved of their posture.

  “So which is it?” Young asked. “You want to talk with me about this murder Dean Edwards is accused of, or ask me about the murder his mother was convicted of?”

  “Both actually,” Hannibal said. The room smelled of smoke and Hannibal wondered how long it would be before Young needed to light up. “I’m convinced there’s a connection between the two, and also between them and the death of Gil Donner’s wife.”

  Young’s eyes never reacted. He simply repeated the name, “Gil Donner?”

  “The fellow who just left here?” Hannibal said.

  “Yes. Tell me, were you tailing him, or am I under surveillance?” Young asked, just the hint of an edge in his voice. “And just who are you? I understand the young lady’s interest here but...”

  “My role is simple,” Hannibal said, handing over his card. “Dean’s in trouble. I’m trying to get him out.”

  Young stared long and hard at Hannibal’s card, as if trying to draw some extra meaning from it. Hannibal and Cindy allowed him the time to think. When he looked up he was nodding his head, his lips curled. “Yes, I’ve heard a little something of you. Some from another old lawyer type, Dan Balor. Told me you helped him out a bit too. And you, Miss Santiago is it? You are one of Dan’s young lions, eh? Or lioness I suppose.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Cindy said. “I think my client is innocent of the murder he’s accused of. I think. I think the guilty party may be responsible for the other two deaths, or perhaps Oscar Peters died because he knew something about the others. And, sir, unless he’s a client, I would really like to know what Gil Donner wanted to talk to you about this morning.”

  Alice entered without knocking and dropped two big paper bags on Young’s desk. She had clearly been with him for several years, a thin woman with a lead from one ear piece of her glasses to the other so they would hang around her neck when she wasn’t wearing them. As she emptied the bags she spoke, not to anyone really but just to the room.

  “Hot pastrami on rye. Roast beef on wheat. Turkey on white. Mustard, mayo, ketchup. And three sweetened iced teas.”

  Like that, she was gone. Young leaned back and said, “Call it, Miss Santiago.”

  Cindy appeared stunned, not sure what she should do, so Hannibal pulled his chair closer to the desk, unwrapped a straw and shoved it through a plastic lid. “Come on Cindy. Turkey, roast beef or pastrami?”

  “Um... turkey I guess.”

  Hannibal shoved one of the wax paper bundles her way and pulled off his gloves. He opened the roast beef sandwich, shoving one of the small paper plates included under it. The sandwich was fat, but the roast beef was lean. His kind of lunch. He noticed Young was much more relaxed at this human level.

  “Well, Donner came here to ask me about Mrs. Edwards’ murder case,” Young said. He opened the pastrami sandwich and crunched on half of the dill pickle before continuing. “He never mentioned his wife’s death, but he did ask a lot about the circumstances of Mr. Edwards’ murder. I think he was looking for similarities between it and the more recent murder of Oscar Peters.”

  “Well the two murders do have a lot in common, and my client was shown to be present soon after both.” Cindy said. She finally spread a paper napkin on her lap and nibbled at her sandwich.

  “Well your client was too short to run a knife over his father’s throat at the time,” Young said between bites. “And his mother didn’t kill his father anyway.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Hannibal put in. The roast beef was juicy and tender and he made a mental note to get the name of the deli it came from before he left. “Of course, for me it’s all conjecture. Why don’t you tell us why you’re so sure she’s innocent?”

  Young stopped chewing for a moment, before looking at Hannibal more sternly. “Take them glasses off.” Hannibal complied and Young returned to chewing his food while he stared some more. Hannibal kept his head up but continued with
his lunch. He liked a man who judged by eye contact. Young finished the first half of his sandwich, wiped his mouth and took a long sip from his drink.

  “What you really want to know is, why’d I plead her out for manslaughter on a heat of passion defense.”

  Hannibal glanced at Cindy, who still didn’t look comfortable, so he turned back to Young. “Forgive me for saying so, but innocent does have a nicer ring to it. If she was.”

  “Oh she was, Mister Jones, count on it. But sometimes the truth only carries so far in court.”

  “You had a suspect?” Cindy asked.

  “What I know for sure is that Grant Edwards was having an affair,” Young said, picking up the second half of his lunch. “And I know that girl he married was full of spit and fire but it wasn’t in her to kill the man she loved. And make no mistake about it, she loved Grant. His family pulled him away from her.”

  “Couldn’t kill him?” Hannibal asked. “Even if he was fooling around with another woman?”

  “How did you know of the affair?” Cindy asked.

  “One at a time,” Young said. “I knew about the other woman because the boy told me. But Dean wouldn’t put that on his dad on the witness stand, not so soon after his death. And I do understand that. And no, Francis could never have killed the man no matter what. But I figure the other woman’s man, or maybe her father, slipped in and did the deed.”

  This introduced a new source of guilt for Dean. By not vilifying his father, he pushed his mother closer to a conviction.

  Cindy emptied her mouth completely before speaking again. “Why not simply subpoena the other woman and let the jury judge for themselves?”

  At that Young slammed a hand down on his desk. “Don’t you think I would have if I could find her? I had no clue to her identity. Who could have helped me? The boy wouldn’t talk. The sister, Ursula, didn’t want to see anything except for my client to go to jail. She hated Francis, even before the murder.”

  “You know,” Cindy said, “Your ten year old suspicions might not seem so silly today, and they might help establish reasonable doubt for my client. One theory is that Dean told Oscar something about Grant Edwards’ murder, something someone didn’t want Oscar to share. Dean might trust you enough to open up a little bit. Would you consider coming in as co-counsel on this?”

  “Perhaps. If you can explain to me how these three murders might be connected.”

  Hannibal finished his lunch and emptied his drink with a loud slurping noise. “Cindy can explain all the theories to you. I want to interview Joan Kitteridge again to try to verify a part of her story. And if you two don’t mind, I’m thinking maybe I can get Ruth Peters to tell me more about Gil Donner’s involvement in all this. I’m going to stop by her hotel room and have a little chat with her.”

  The first errand was somewhat disappointing. Ruth’s room was empty. For a small gratuity he learned from a bellman that she had left with a man whose description matched that of Gil Donner. Of course Monty was nowhere in sight. He would have followed at a discreet distance. When he could get to a telephone he would let Hannibal know of any significant activity. Hannibal cursed himself for not getting a phone for Monty.

  Then he turned his car to the offices of Kitteridge Computer Systems, Incorporated. The Stepford Wives receptionist smiled with recognition when he entered and anticipated his first question.

  “If you’re looking for Miss Kitteridge, Mister Jones, she isn’t in today.”

  With an effort Hannibal managed not to focus his frustration on her. “That’s all right. Could you buzz Mark Norton for me please?”

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid Mister Norton isn’t in today either.”

  Hannibal nodded, his eyes closed behind his dark glasses. That, he supposed, was predictable. He thought they would fly back in the wee hours to make their relationship less obvious, but he then he guessed they just decided to enjoy a long weekend together. That, or they had disappeared for good. Joan’s absence only made her connection to Oscar’s murder more suspicious. He was about to leave when he decided to try another wild shot, his second of the day.

  “There’s one other person who could help me. Do you know a Native American named Many Bad Horses?”

  The girl smiled her chilling mechanical smile. “Victor? Of course, one doesn’t forget a name like that. But he’s, um, no longer with us.”

  “Really?” Hannibal said, trying hard to sound conspiratorial. “A talent like him, I would have expected Miss Kitteridge to hang on to. Was he, you know, let go?”

  The receptionist lowered her eyes and smiled. “Well, he was allowed to resign of course but...”

  Hannibal lowered himself into the chair beside her desk. “But?”

  “Well there were rumors,” the woman said. “I heard Miss Kitteridge asked him to go because she caught him messing around in the employee files, you know, digging into people’s personal information. You know those computer types. Can’t stay out of files marked confidential.”

  “You’re so right,” Hannibal said. And what did this mean? Was it an indication that Fancy was in the blackmail business? That would certainly point to a motive for Oscar’s death. Did Oscar learn something from his good friend that got him killed? Or did he pass information to Fancy that was traced back to its source?

  Hannibal was the lone rider in a down bound elevator when his phone rang again. He flipped it open, hoping to hear from Monty, but prepared for bad news from Cindy about Dean’s hospitalization. When he heard Sarge’s voice, he remembered that he should have expected a call from him as well.

  “Hey, my man, what’s the latest from out west?”

  “We’re having a good time, man,” Sarge said. “Quaker’s already gambled away his fee for this little jaunt. But I think we found what you were looking for, so maybe we can get back to DC before we go completely broke.”

  “So Joan was in Vegas last summer to do the chapel thing?” Hannibal asked as he got into his car.

  “Close but no cigar,” Sarge said. “It was a divorce she was after, and she got it finalized too,”

  “Divorce? I thought they were relative newlyweds.”

  “Different husband,” Sarge said. “They wouldn’t give us any info about the man down at the courthouse, but they said Joan Kitteridge got divorced. Didn’t want to tell us that much but, well, we kind of finagled it out of this broad.”

  “I probably don’t want to know the details,” Hannibal said. “Enough to know she was married before. And for some reason or other, she sure didn’t want it to be public knowledge. Gives me a bit more to talk to her about. And since she didn’t go to work today, I think I’ll just head over to the house and roust her.”

  * * *

  Hannibal roared up onto Route 395 headed north and east to Arlington. Afternoon traffic was light and in a handful of minutes he was again in the driveway of the substantial Kitteridge home. He was wondering if one of its occupants was as solid as that structure. It even crossed his mind that perhaps he should have brought Virgil along as backup. Could the woman really be dangerous?

  When Langford Kitteridge opened the door, Hannibal thought he saw worry lines on his face, but as he registered who his visitor was, he broke into a smile and waved him inside.

  “Mister Jones, here’s a surprise. Won’t you come in?”

  They went into the living room, furnished in very modern black chrome decor. Between that and the spring in Langford’s step, Hannibal had to remind himself that this man was not his own age. Like a good host, Langford went straight to the wet bar and poured out a pair of cocktails. Hannibal didn’t know they were martinis until the olives dropped in. He seemed to be meeting a lot of people lately who thought they knew what he wanted.

  As Langford handed up the glass he said, “Well, have you talked to Joanie in the last couple of days?”

  “Actually, I came by hoping to see her here.” Hannibal removed his glasses to admire the military oil paintings hanging in well lighted places around the
room, and his eyes were drawn to one framed certificate. It expressed the thanks of the President of the United States for thirty years of faithful service. The retirement certificate was for a brigadier general in the United States Army. Well that went a long way to explain the man’s level of fitness, no to mention his ramrod straight posture. But then his face drew Hannibal again, the worry lines returning.

  “I haven’t seen her,” Langford said, as if speaking of a small child. “The girl hasn’t been home in three days. Hasn’t called. Not even an e-mail note.”

  No, Hannibal thought, she was busy spending time with her hidden husband and dealing with her old employee. For now, Hannibal suspected Oscar had been blackmailing her with information he got from Fancy. She would want to silence the source somehow, but it’s dangerous to kill an old pro at the blackmail game. Maybe the secret had to do with the divorce she kept so quiet.

  “Tell me, has she been behaving oddly lately? Like since her divorce?”

  “Divorce?” Langford tipped his glass up and settled onto a bar stool. “I think perhaps you’ve gotten hold of some bad information, my young friend. A person has to be married before they can be divorced. And my Joanie’s just never found the right fellow. Afraid to stray too far from home I suppose. Besides, as soon as she got out of school I started KCS and gave it to her to run. It’s kept her out of trouble, but it’s also become her life.”

  For Langford, this was a spate of running off at the mouth. Hannibal saw Joan as aggressive and independent. Her uncle’s doting must suffocate her. He could almost see that as a motive for keeping a marriage secret, but not quite. Either way, he saw no reason to hurt the old man.

  “Sorry, must have gotten something mixed up. When I got the report of her time in Las Vegas last summer...”