Collateral damage hj-2

by Austin S. Camacho

  “Oh, no, but he had to die, didn’t he?” Hannibal asked. “After all, he was blackmailing you wasn’t he? I’m thinking when he and Dean put their heads together, he found out about your connection to Grant Edwards’ murder. That led him to suspect that your ex-husband was still alive. And that made you a blackmail target. And that made him a target for your murderous ex.”

  Donner shook his head, but that didn’t hide the tiny beads of sweat beginning to appear on his forehead. “This really is a pretty fanciful group of conjectures, don’t you think?”

  “What if everything you say is true?” Joan said, her eyes cutting toward the door. “There’s still no reason to hold me. I haven’t committed any crime. And I really must be going.”

  For a moment Joan assumed the icy confidence Hannibal was accustomed to. She stood, smoothed down her skirt and moved as if she would walk past Hannibal and out the door. Hannibal pulled his gun in beside his waist and cocked his right fist.

  “Him I’ll shoot if I have to,” Hannibal said. “You I’d just knock down. Remember my job is to save Dean Edwards, and nothing bad happened to him until you moved the knife.”

  “What?” Donner stared at Joan, as if waiting for her to explain.

  “Nobody else went into Dean’s apartment over your garage who was in any way connected to the murders. No one was there after Oscar’s death who didn’t belong there. Somebody would have noticed a strange man lurking around. So you’re the only one who could have hidden the murder weapon in Dean’s place. You implicated him.”

  “No!” Joan said, still on her feet. “I like Dean. And you have got to let me go before another man close to me is hurt.”

  “Another?” Hannibal’s mouth dropped open when it came to him. He had been so focused on reconstructing events of the past that he forgot about the present. The first killing might have been accidental, and the last may have been to protect old secrets, but the second, Grant Edwards’ murder, had surely been about jealousy. He looked up at Joan to find her again staring past him toward the door. She wanted out, and he suddenly realized why.

  “Mark,” was all he had time to say before the impact to his lower back sent him sprawling across the room. His right arm hit the writing table and his left hit the bed, leaving no way to reduce the impact when his face thumped into the floor. Through the haze of semi-consciousness he could hear Joan’s heels clicking out of the room.

  32

  Hannibal felt the gun being pulled from his left hand and braced for the bullet that did not come. Instead he took one hard kick to his midsection. Hannibal felt he deserved it for unforgivable carelessness. Very slowly he turned onto his right side to scan his surroundings.

  The cheap carpeting scraped his face when he landed. His breath rasped in his throat. Pain shot up his spine as he moved, but he faced his situation stoically. His sunglasses had flown from his face so he had a very clear view of Cook, Donner’s blonde haired escort from the German bar. The man looked even taller standing above Hannibal, pointing Hannibal’s own Sig Sauer down at him. He craned his head to find Donner, above and behind him, sitting calmly at the round table, legs crossed, smoking a cigarette.

  “Well, this is a spot to be in, eh?” Donner said with a faint smile. His hard blue eyes pushed to a squint. “I am fortunate of course, that Cook returned from his errand when he did. But then, had he found what he was looking for, this would all be over now.”

  “I take it Joan’s on her way to warn Mark at last?” Hannibal said. “You should have sent Cook with her. In her ex-husband’s mind, she’s betrayed him. She won’t be able to stop him.”

  Donner smiled, his chin pushing down into the rolls of skin and fat below it. “I think her position is stronger than yours. Policemen will soon be here, yes? And they will find an elite soldier, a ranger, and a veteran visiting from Germany who have been attacked in their hotel room.”

  “They know your hostage is involved in a murder investigation,” Hannibal said, working to stay calm. “And they know that you, Donner, are a part of that investigation.”

  “Will that justify the private detective pulling a gun on us in our own hotel room without any hard evidence that we were involved in any wrongdoing? Even a policeman would not have been able to walk in here uninvited without a warrant and point a loaded gun at me. Tell me, who are they more likely to believe? You or me?”

  From the hall a voice said, “Won’t matter what you say.”

  Hannibal’s head spun. First his eyes fixed again on his gun. Then he looked past it to Ray standing in the doorway. The gun began to swing away as Cook’s face turned toward Ray. This idiot would kill his friend without a second thought. Hannibal hooked his right foot behind Cook’s. Then with a grunt he stamped out with his left. His heel smacked into the side of Cook’s knee. There was a subtle snapping sound like a small twig stepped on in the woods.

  Cook’s mouth dropped open and he made a gasping noise as he went down. Ray hopped forward to stamp down on Cook’s wrist, holding the gun down. He reached down to recover the weapon.

  Donner leaped from his chair and swung a booted foot forward. Hannibal’s legs were tangled up with Cook’s, limiting his movement. He barely avoided the main thrust of the kick. The heel grazed his head, but despite the flash of pain, he grasped the heel flying past and pushed hard. Caught off balance, Donner fell backward into the round table. Spurred by his rising anger, Hannibal managed to get to his feet just about when Donner did. The older man cocked back a fist, but then seemed to reconsider.

  “Please,” Hannibal said, leaning back against the low chest of drawers. “Please try.”

  Donner looked past Hannibal to Ray, who lowered the gun to his side and shrugged his shoulders. Donner looked away, as if he were planning to sit. Then without warning he whipped his fist up, leaning with all his power into a right cross aimed at Hannibal’s jaw.

  Hannibal’s left hand slapped the punch inward. Donner may have even seen Hannibal smile as his gloved right fist slammed up and forward into Donner’s midsection. His fist seemed to sink to its wrist in that soft belly, and the air burst out of Donner like the cork from a champagne bottle.

  Donner crumpled forward. Hannibal seized his jacket lapels with both hands and swung him around, trying to sit him on the low chest of drawers, but Donner’s knees were rubber bands now and he slumped on to the floor.

  In that one brief instant, Hannibal had a gut-wrenching picture of the present superimposed against the past. Just behind and to the right of Donner’s face was his West Point class photo.

  Hannibal recognized Donner in his sharp, crisp uniform primarily by his eyes, the same hard deep blue marbles in the live face beside the photo. But the old picture showed a hard body and a Spartan face with deep cleft cheekbones and a dimple in the chin. Nothing like the sagging cheeks and double chin Hannibal faced in present day real life. What a waste, he thought. Then his eyes were drawn to the man standing beside Donner in the photo. Hannibal’s jaw dropped an inch as he matched the photograph to a verbal description he had heard not long ago. This man was taller than Donner, handsome and on the slim side. But beneath that military jacket one could see he was muscular. Dark brown hair and eyes. High cheekbones. Well tanned.

  “I’ll be damned,” Hannibal said. “You went to the academy with him, didn’t you?”

  Hannibal dropped Donner and grabbed up the photo, searching the lettering beneath the photo for the name.

  Seated on the floor, the dazed Donner mumbled, “You won’t stop the General. He’s too much for you, too much for any man.”

  “The general?” Hannibal asked. “I get it. The man was your commander I bet, as well as your classmate. But would that cause a man to share his wife and even cover up her murder?” Then Hannibal glanced at those hard blue eyes for a moment, eyes that were beginning to go misty. “Yes, I suppose you would. You’d do anything to protect this man you revered, this general…”

  Hannibal hesitated as he searched the names at the bottom
of the photo, but when he found Al Brooks he was a short, pale, blond-haired blue eyed man. The photo matching the description of Joan’s husband went with a different name.

  “Oh Jesus,” Hannibal said, sucking in a sharp breath. “It’s Langford Kitteridge.”

  33

  When Hannibal turned to rush out of the room he stepped into a cloud of blue uniforms. The police had finally arrived and their first act was to relieve Ray of the pistol he was holding. The incoming wave of police momentarily pressed Hannibal back into the room, until he spotted a familiar face at the back of the crowd.

  “Thompson,” Hannibal called. “Let me out of here. I need to talk to you now, to prevent another killing.”

  Stan Thompson waved and the uniformed officers parted to let Hannibal through. In the hall he looked into Thompson’s impassive face and realized he had way too much to say and not nearly enough time to say it.

  “Look, I’m glad you’re here,” Hannibal said. “I know what happened now, and I know why. You can get almost the whole story out of the older man in there, Gil Donner. His wife was our killer’s first victim, even before Grant Edwards. But right now, he’s on his way to scratch vic number four. I need a police escort to get to the scene with lights and sirens or else we’ll be too late.”

  Thompson maintained his bored expression. “You’ll have to give me a hell of a lot more than that before I send a car off with you to parts unknown, Jones.”

  “You don’t understand,” Hannibal said. “There’s no time. We may already be too late. And I can’t stand here and debate it with you. You don’t want to send a car, fine. Then tell them to watch out for the Volvo doing a hundred miles an hour toward Falls Church.”

  Behind him, Hannibal heard Thompson shout “Halt!” but the sound faded quickly as he dived into the stairwell. Seconds later he burst into the lobby at a dead run. Sprinting across the floor he almost crashed into Kate Andrews at the door. Instead he grabbed her arm and continued out. Despite the surprise on her face, Kate ran with him as best she could.

  “Get in my car if you want the whole story,” Hannibal told her, panting as he ran. “The police might be after us, but if they don’t stop us, you’ll get the full story you started on with Dean Edwards at the end of this ride, one way or the other.”

  Hannibal rammed the White Tornado into gear and pulled away from the curb before Kate quite had her seat belt on. He drove south on Route One as fast as the traffic would allow. He knew Mark Norton’s place was not far away, but this could well be the longest five miles of his life. Hannibal’s senses were turned up to maximum sensitivity and his passenger had the good sense to sit quietly and grit her teeth. He swung right onto Glebe road dodging from one lane to another to gain every possible second’s advantage. He raced through one red light a second after it turned, before cross traffic could fill the intersection. Finally he roared with squealing tires up the ramp onto I-395 where he could really open up his engine.

  “Are we rushing to capture the murderer?” Kate asked.

  “That and prevent another killing,” Hannibal said. “What were you doing at the Courtyard, anyway?”

  “When I heard on the scanner that you called the police I figured it might have to do with my story.”

  “If we’re in time, this will be the end of it,” Hannibal said, swerving to pass a slow moving SUV on the right. “Oscar Peters was this murderer’s third victim, and all of the killings revolve around Joan Kitteridge. She’ll be there when we get there I think.”

  “Well then, let me call a camera crew,” Kate said, pulling out her cell phone. “Maybe we can get some arrest footage.”

  Hannibal left the highway for King Street, amazed that no police car had spotted him. A handful of seconds later, he slowed to well below the speed limit and pulled to the right hand lane.

  “What happened to our hurry?” Kate asked. “Don’t we need to head off the murderer?”

  “Actually, we almost overtook him,” Hannibal said. “Three cars up.” He pointed ahead at the low slung midnight blue Lexus they had almost passed. Its license plate read KITYCAR1.

  Hannibal hung back as the Lexus turned into the parking lot. He parked on the opposite side of the lot, four cars away from the little red Corvette with the KITTYCAR license plates. He slouched low as the driver of the Lexus got out of his car and headed for the building.

  “This is the killer?” Kate asked, skepticism dripping from her voice. Hannibal understood her disbelief. Despite the energy in his step, the gray headed man in Dockers and a corduroy blazer still had to be in his sixties. As he entered the door, Hannibal slid out of his driver’s seat.

  “We follow at a discreet distance,” Hannibal said. “Meanwhile, call the police and tell them you’ve witnessed an assault at this address in number 604.”

  In the elevator, Kate asked, “Isn’t this dangerous? What if he kills his victim before we get there?”

  “Not much chance of that,” Hannibal said. “Not with her standing there. In fact, I think he’ll be stuck for just what to do.”

  Standing outside Mark Norton’s door, Hannibal felt no such hesitation or confusion. He had determined that enough people had been hurt in the last fifteen years and that it would stop here. Driven more by his own desire for closure than a need for justice, he tried the door. The knob turned in his hand and he stepped inside.

  The tableau that greeted him was not quite what he expected. Mark Norton sat on the sofa, beside two suitcases. Langford Kitteridge sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Joan Kitteridge stood in front of the glass doors leading to the balcony. Her eyes widened as Hannibal walked in, her jaw dropped open and she even stuttered out her first few words.

  “Mr. Jones, what are you doing here?”

  “Surprised to see me alive, Joan?” Hannibal asked, waving Kate to the couch. She sat and pulled a reporter’s notebook out of her bag.

  “You’re becoming a nuisance,” Langford said over his shoulder. “I think you should go.”

  Hannibal closed the door and stood between it and the rest of the room’s occupants. “I don’t think so. Not until I’m sure Mark here knows what he’s getting into being involved with Joan. After that he can make a bad choice with his eyes open if he likes.”

  Mark’s face took on an arrogant smirk. “We’ve just told Mr. Kitteridge about our marriage, Jones, and she’s explained about her earlier matrimonial mistake. Now what do you think you can tell me about her I don’t know?”

  Hannibal looked not at Mark but rather into Langford’s deeply cleft face when he answered. “Well I wonder if she told you she was an eyewitness to the first murder Langford here committed. And I don’t think she told you that he came over today intending to kill you. He would have too, if Joan hadn’t gotten here first. Guess you two were packing to escape, eh Joan?”

  In all that, Mark had only captured one word. “Murder?” he repeated.

  “Yep. He’d do anything to keep Joan for himself.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kate said, scribbling like a madwoman. “Isn’t this her uncle?”

  “God, I hope not,” Hannibal said. “Because they’ve been sleeping together since before Joan was of legal age. And when she did reach legal age, they were married. Mark, meet Joan’s first husband. You aren’t blood relatives, are you?” This last question Hannibal addressed to Langford.

  “You’re treading on dangerous territory,” Langford said, slipping to his feet. “We’re not blood and, even if we maintained our privacy, there was nothing illegal or even illicit about our marriage.”

  “Well, you’ve always seen the morality thing in shades of gray, haven’t you, Langford?” Hannibal asked. “Before you met Joan, you were sleeping with the wife of your good friend Gil Donner.”

  Langford reddened. “I never sneaked behind his back. Gil and Carla had an open relationship.”

  “That appears to be true,” Hannibal said. “They even had a little love nest apartment where they met their outside interes
ts. Funny, you’d have expected Carla to be a better sport. About sharing, I mean.”

  “Okay, I’m lost,” Mark said, standing up. “What has all this to do with a murder?”

  Hannibal looked at Joan, giving her a chance to speak. She shook her head and remained silent, so Hannibal continued. “As it turns out, Langford here reached the rank of Brigadier General in the Army over there in Berlin. Having an underage girlfriend would have derailed that career for sure, but he had a safe place to take her. Gil Donner’s little love nest. The way I see it, Carla must have caught you two up there, doing the nasty. I don’t understand how she could justify being jealous, but I don’t think she reacted well. Otherwise, Langford wouldn’t have killed her.”

  All eyes turned to Langford. His eyes cast toward the carpet. “It was an accident.”

  “Maybe,” Hannibal said. “But if she was planning to leave Gil for you, she’d have been a terrible security risk after she found out you liked them younger. In any case, she ended up dead, and again a connection to you would have ended your precious career. So you set her up to look like a suicide. Then you convinced your subordinate, Gil Donner, the provost marshal, to limit the investigation.”

  “She was already dead,” Langford said, taking a step toward Hannibal. “There was nothing to be gained by exposing my mistake.”

  “Yes, and Donner was in no hurry to expose his lifestyle. The two of you decided nothing you did would hurt her anymore, but you didn’t seem to notice or care about ruining the life of a good MP named Foster Peters. No biggie, right? One thing you learned in your early career in Vietnam was, every enemy action creates a certain amount of acceptable collateral damage.”

  Mark stepped closer to Joan, hands held wide. “Is this true, baby? You saw him kill a woman? And then you, you married him?” Joan nodded slowly, but could not produce any words.

  “Well they wanted to stay together, but now they had no place to go,” Hannibal said. “And I think maybe old Langford here was really in love with her. So he took her in, and made up the dead brother story to make it acceptable for her to be in his home. Then, to tie her to him better, he married her. I don’t think he knew at the time that Foster Peters’ son, Oscar, was one of her young admirers. Did you let it slip that Carla Donner’s death was suspicious, Joan?”