Collateral damage hj-2

by Austin S. Camacho

  3

  Half an hour later, Hannibal followed Bea down his front steps to the Washington street. The sunshine was still bright, but the world looked different to him. Out there, in front of his three-story tenement, poverty blew in on him like the hot breath from a panting engine. Boys traveled in gangs and older people hurried along the sidewalk, not looking left or right. Even the few trees on his block struggled to maintain their lives at the edge of the curb. And he was no longer on vacation. He was at work, and his work was always grim.

  Hannibal looked different too. Now in his black suit and tie, wearing his signature Oakley sunglasses, he felt more businesslike. Black driving gloves did not impede his pushing the button on his key nfob to unlock the Volvo, the White Tornado as he called it in private. He held the door for Bea to get into what was the only new car on the block right then. Once behind the wheel, he started the CD player, filling the car with the sound of Wynton Marsalis’ unique interpretations of movement and sound, melody and rhythm. With an easy smile he pulled away from the curb, headed for the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

  Relaxing back into the white leather, Hannibal asked, “Just what is a professional woman like you doing in this neighborhood, Miss Collins?”

  “My mother and Mother Washington were very close, Mister Jones,” Bea said. She sat very straight and looked forward at the crumbling inner city beyond the windshield. “I still attend her church. Every Sunday. The Lord has brought me everything, Mister Jones with never a trial, until…”

  Hannibal nodded. “Until now. Well, maybe we can make this a short trial. And please, call me Hannibal okay?”

  Bea nodded and sat quietly for a while. Hannibal drove them across the Potomac River and onto the George Washington Parkway. Past Reagan National Airport the park on their left was overrun with joggers, picnickers, and the occasional fisherman trying to make the river give up its rockfish. Three small sailboats seemed to be playing tag against the background of the well-wooded Maryland shore.

  “And what about you, er, Hannibal?” Bea asked. “I understand you are a successful businessman. What takes you to that neighborhood?”

  “Long story. I’m surprised Mother Washington hasn’t told you.” Hannibal turned left at the second light into the part of Alexandria locals called Old Town, then right on Fairfax, the street closest to the river. As other streets moved closer to the river, he turned to keep the open water on his left. “So tell me, how long have you known this Dean Edwards?”

  Two blocks of expensive townhouses passed. Bea watched Hannibal’s face until she was ready to answer but when she did she turned to stare into her own lap. “Three months. You think I’m being a crazy woman, don’t you? You won’t find him. You don’t think I should even be looking.”

  Hannibal parked in the numbered space designated for Bea’s home. The new bank of colorful townhouses called Ford’s Landing hung at the edge of the Potomac shore. All brick homes, with private garages, private patios facing the water, and price tags cresting over the million dollar mark. Hannibal gained a new appreciation for the value of interior design. Or at least, for the value some wealthy people must put on interior design.

  Bea’s home was almost in the shadow of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, which carried a couple hundred thousand commuters from Maryland to Virginia and back every day. Today the bridge was quiet but Hannibal could imagine the din of the traffic she must hear every weekday. The coarse smell of the Potomac splashed across his face as he opened his car door. Actually most of the smell would come from the waste treatment plant across the river, not far down on his left. He wondered briefly how this could become one of the most sought after addresses in the city.

  Bea gripped his hand before he could quite get out of the car. When he looked back she said, “Will you find him, Mister Jones?”

  “Hannibal,” he repeated, smiling into her soft eyes. “And if I don’t find the man, it won’t be for lack of trying. You hired me to do a job, not to judge anyone. You’ll have to trust me. Can you trust me?”

  Bea smiled, and looked even more vulnerable for it. “I handed the keys to my Lexus to your girlfriend, didn’t I? Yes, I trust you. You, and Mother Washington, and the Lord who brought us together.”

  Bea’s three-level home told Hannibal volumes about her, but there was scant evidence of a male resident. Bea explained that she had spent most of Saturday in an ever-increasing panic, and when she was upset, she cleaned. He noticed a copy of Architectural Digest on a glass end table, open to the picture of what looked like a huge, rambling hotel.

  “My work,” Bea said. He saw Bea cited as interior designer, and read part of the description under the heading “Best Rental Development.”

  This 262-unit rental community features an upscale appearance and quality finishes in apartments designed to appeal to employees of local high-tech companies. The development features two distinct building styles: high density, 1- and 2-bedroom”atrium” units that range in size from 717 to 1208 square feet and feature subterranean parking; and low-density, 1-, 2- and 3-bedroom “villa” units that form the perimeter of the development and have direct-access garages and private entries. Units feature such desirable amenities as ceramic tile counters, custom cabinets and flooring, marble fireplaces, crown molding, and upgraded lighting…

  Hannibal whistled aloud. “You did this? I imagined you picking the drapes in rich people's houses.”

  “All my work,” Bea said, “and not just the residence areas. I designed the interiors of the 10,000-square-foot resident pavilion, the business center, gourmet commercial kitchen, billiards room and even the fitness center.”

  Hannibal dropped the magazine and moved to the kitchen. “Not many start in the hood and fly so high. Is that what Sidwell Friends School does for you?”

  Bea stopped mid-step. “How did you…?”

  “Lucky guess,” Hannibal said, opening an extremely orderly cabinet filled with glassware. “You don’t talk like public school. Your folks must have worked their butts off to get you into that place.”

  Hannibal closed the cabinet and continued to explore Bea’s home. She was proud when he went through her kitchen, and showed embarrassment when he entered her bedroom, despite the fact that it looked like a showroom. At Hannibal’s insistence Bea checked her jewelry case and announced with some arrogance that nothing was missing.

  “Good,” Hannibal said, exploring the dresser she had assigned to Dean. “Did you have any cash in the house?”

  Pause. “Maybe a couple of hundred dollars I guess.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Well I figure he must have needed some expense money, after all.”

  The big walk-in closet was clearly divided. Her clothes hung or lay folded in perfect order on the left, while his were on the right. Dean had left most of his clothes behind, but they were in no way remarkable. Hannibal found what would be a set of luggage on the overhead racks, but the second largest piece was missing.

  Hannibal found British Sterling cologne in the bathroom. Otherwise Dean must have used her toothpaste, soap and shampoo, with no brands of his own. And Hannibal doubted a fingerprint team could prove that a second person ever lived there after Bea’s cleaning binge. Dean’s toothbrush and comb were gone, so not even a stray sample of the man’s hair remained.

  Yes, Dean was remarkable for the footprint he did not leave behind. Bea confirmed he had brought no pictures when he moved in, no music, no games, and only a handful of books, which he took when he left. After forty-five minutes in her apartment, Hannibal knew no more about Dean Edwards than when he arrived.

  On Bea’s front landing the afternoon sun made the world seem a lot cleaner than it was. They moved at an easy pace on their way to the car, floating through an idyllic setting that had nothing to do with the ache on Bea’s face. She waved sullenly to a middle aged white man who was lovingly paste waxing a maroon Jaguar XJ6 of indeterminate age.

  “If he keeps at it, that car will shine as bright as his s
calp,” Hannibal said.

  “Oh, Murray’s okay,” Bea said. “No crime against being chubby, white and bald. He’s a good neighbor, and he’s out here doing something on that car every Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Really? Did he see Dean leave?”

  “Maybe,” she said, reaching for the Volvo’s door handle.

  “Maybe? You mean you haven’t asked him?”

  Hannibal turned and headed back toward the Jaguar. Murray kept his head down and his arm moving in a smooth circular motion. Hannibal understood. He was an unknown and Murray didn’t want any trouble with his neighbor. So Hannibal stood, watching his own reflection in the maroon hood until Bea reached his side. Then he took Bea’s hand and broadened his smile to its limit.

  “Excuse me. Got a minute?”

  Murray looked up, his eyes flicking from Hannibal to Bea and back. Then Murray smiled in return, nodded and muttered, “Much better” under his breath. His expression said he approved of the new man more than the last one. “What can I do for you?”

  “That car’s a beauty. Must take a lot of work, eh?”

  Murray grinned bigger. “Sorry sport, she’s not for sale if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Actually, Bea tells me you were working on her yesterday too. Thought you might have seen Dean go out.”

  “Maybe,” Murray said. His eyes grew wary and his focus shifted to Bea. “Why? You after him?”

  Hannibal patted Bea’s hand in his. “Well he hasn’t been back since yesterday morning and, well, Bea’s a bit worried about him. I thought you might have noticed what time it was or which way he went.”

  Conflict contorted Murray’s face. Hannibal thought he might not want to get involved with a neighbor’s personal life. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Or maybe he knew something he wasn’t sure he should share. Hannibal reevaluated the man’s age and probable social background, and decided how he should proceed. He turned to Bea and his smile became condescending.

  “Honey, why don’t you go ahead and get in the car and let the men talk for a minute, okay?”

  Bea looked confused but obeyed. Hannibal resisted slapping her fanny for effect, but he did pick up a chamois and start rubbing the Jaguar’s fender. Murray was silent for a moment, until he seemed to realize he had control of the conversation. Some people are comfortable with silence. Hannibal had judged correctly that Murray was not.

  “You going to take care of her? Instead of her taking care of you?”

  “I’m not Dean, if that’s what you mean,” Hannibal said in conspiratorial tones.

  Murray worked the chrome of the door handle with more concentration than necessary. “He left around ten-thirty. Right behind the woman.”

  “Woman?” Hannibal asked. “Are you saying he had another woman here?” He didn’t have to fake his indignation. Bea deserved better.

  “White woman,” Murray said, as if that was significant. “Skinny blonde dame, older than him by a ways. She hit that door as soon as Miss Collins rounded the corner.” Murray glanced around as if he was looking for someplace to spit.

  Hannibal nodded in agreement with his sentiments. “How long was she in there?”

  “Maybe half an hour. Just about long enough, if you know what I mean.”

  “And Dean came out five or ten minutes later,” Hannibal said aloud but to himself. That was just time enough to pack if he was in a hurry. So who was the woman? Certainly not a lover despite Murray’s obvious assumption. “He was carrying a suitcase. Did he leave on foot? Which way did he head?”

  Murray sat back on his haunches. “What are you, some kind of a detective?”

  “Something like that. Just trying to help Bea out. Which way?”

  “He was walking when he left,” Murray said, glancing over at Bea in Hannibal’s car. “Never looked left or right, just headed up toward Washington Street. Looked like he was in an awful hurry to get away from here. Can’t understand it myself. She’s a peach, that girl.”

  Hannibal nodded again. “Thanks for the help, mister. I think maybe the only way for her to understand what this guy was, is to face him again. If I can find him, then maybe…”

  4

  Hannibal shook Murray’s hand just as Bea’s silver Lexus pulled into the parking lot beside Hannibal’s car. He reached it in time to see Cindy hand Bea her keys.

  “That was fun,” Cindy said. “Might have to get myself a car one of these days.”

  “You don’t own a car?” Bea asked, as if Cindy had just revealed she didn’t wear underwear.

  “She prefers to hand her money to cab drivers,” Hannibal said, “or ride around with me.”

  Cindy slipped a possessive arm around Hannibal’s waist. “Yep, this is my favorite cabby right here. So, did you get anywhere, honey?”

  Honey was what Cindy called Hannibal in the presence of unattached women. He considered it only marginally more subtle than the method dogs use to mark their territory. “I was just getting the lay of the land here, Cindy. The work will start after I get some pictures to distribute.”

  “When can we get started with that?” Bea asked.

  “If the reporter or cameraman who covered the event you and Dean attended is at work today I should get them pretty quickly,” Hannibal said. “I, not we.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  “Bea,” Hannibal said in his gentlest voice, “I’m sorry but we can’t do this together. I can do this. Or you can do this. The choice, of course, is up to you.”

  The woman actually pouted. “But I want to do something.”

  “Then stay by the phone,” Hannibal said. “He might call or send a message. But leave the searching to me, all right? That’s what you’re paying me for.”

  News Channel 8 was all local and all news and, as expected, a twenty-four hour operation. But despite what Hannibal told Bea, he was surprised to find the reporter he needed to talk to at work on a Sunday evening. Yet there she stood, not as perky as she appeared on screen, standing over the young man at the controls in a darkened editing room, directing the construction of another video story.

  Hannibal had called the station soon after driving away from Bea’s house. He had learned that the girl in question, Kate Andrews, was the newest television reporter on staff. That being the case, it was no surprise that she drew many of the weekend fluff assignments. He also learned that she would be in-house on that Sunday evening, helping a videotape editor turn her latest script into two or three minutes of video news.

  After placing that call, he had joined Cindy for dinner at the Blue Pointe Grill, a seafood haven on Washington Street, Alexandria’s main thoroughfare. It had become Cindy’s favorite eating spot since the day they found themselves two tables away from John Ashcroft. As far as lawyers go, this was a celebrity just short of a Supreme Court justice. Hannibal’s only memory of that night was that for an Attorney General, he seemed to be a pretty poor tipper.

  Hannibal told Cindy what he learned from Murray over swordfish marinated with rosemary.

  “A woman?” she asked between bites. “How terrible for Bea. Another lover you think?”

  “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-min
ute 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.