Russian Roulette hj-5

by Austin S. Camacho

  “So, what if Gana really is bad for her, which I doubt,” Hannibal said. “After all, he’s rich, handsome, smooth, apparently legitimate, and, by the way, he sure looks like he loves her.” He wondered if Ivanovich was drunk enough, and emotional enough, to get careless.

  “You are wrong.” Ivanovich crossed his arms, his jaw jutting out. It was less the picture of a deadly killer and more a study in stubbornness.

  “What if I am?” Hannibal asked, wrapping his right hand around the bottle. “She’s a farmer’s daughter turned Washington socialite. She’s got nothing to do with the way her father made his fortune here. Do you really think she’d give the time of day to a hired killer like you?” With the location of the pistol locked in his mind, he watched Ivanovich’s eyes.

  “You can say this? You?” Ivanovich emptied his glass again and crossed his arms. “We are the same, you and I. Don’t you realize that?”

  “I don’t go around killing innocent people,” Hannibal said, lifting the bottle to refill his glass.

  “Nor do I,” Ivanovich said, his words carrying a slight slur. “I remove only those who are already preying on the innocent. Most people, they are like sheep. You know this. The people I work for are wolves, preying on those sheep. The people who hire me send me to cull the herd of the wolves that can’t follow the rules of the pack leaders.”

  “Right. You’re trying to tell me that you’re just there to maintain order.”

  “Yes,” Ivanovich said with a grim smile, pointing at Hannibal. “Just like you. That is why I came to you for help. Because we are alike.”

  “Don’t you dare compare yourself to me,” Hannibal said. “I am not like you.”

  “You don’t see yourself as a wolf?” Ivanovich crossed his arms again, leaning back against the wall, his eyes again hooded, his mouth set in a derisive smirk. “Are you then one of the sheep?”

  “Nope. I’m one of the sheepdogs. I keep the wolves at bay. And you…” In midsentence, Hannibal’s left hand released his glass and darted toward the spot on the desk where the silenced automatic lay.

  But it was already gone.

  Hannibal leaned on his hand in an awkward position, frozen, staring at the muzzle of the silencer aim at the spot between his eyes. A few tense seconds passed in silence.

  “And I?” Ivanovich said, his words no longer slurred. “I am a little faster than you. A little faster, and a little smarter than you think I am.”

  Hannibal righted himself, backing off two steps. His eyes never wavered from Ivanovich’s eyes. The odor of spilled alcohol was sharp in his nose, and he thought he could feel more alcohol popping out of the pores of his forehead, but he would not let his voice waver.

  “I had to try.”

  “Of course,” Ivanovich said, smiling. “I would have. In a way, I would have been disappointed if you didn’t try. But now, how can I trust you? And if all you say is true, then maybe my efforts here have no purpose. In which case, you no longer serve any purpose for me.”

  Hannibal clenched his teeth, prepared to pay the price for his gamble. Watching Ivanovich’s finger tighten on the trigger, Hannibal regretted that there was no one else to protect Cindy.

  11

  The knock at the door made Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat. Ray’s voice tripled his pulse rate.

  “Hey, Hannibal. You in there, Paco?”

  Ivanovich moved the pistol’s barrel two degrees to the left. Now the bullet would brush past Hannibal and poke a tiny hole in the office door and Ray Santiago’s chest. A quick follow-up shot could still take Hannibal down before he had time to move. He couldn’t stop the Russian from killing them both, but he had to try. Ray didn’t deserve to die. He was an innocent in this case.

  “One of the sheep,” Hannibal said under his breath. Ivanovich heard and shifted his focus from the wooden door back to Hannibal’s face.

  “Come on, man,” Ray said. “I wanted to let you know. That guy you’re investigating? He ain’t for real.”

  Ivanovich looked at Hannibal with an open-mouthed half smile. Hannibal interpreted the expression as a look of relief. Relief to hear he might be proven right, and maybe relief at having a good reason not to kill Ray. Keeping his gun on Hannibal, he went to the next room and pulled the pocket doors together, leaving just enough of a gap to see through. Or shoot through.

  Hannibal released his breath, feeling some relief himself. He knew that Ivanovich shared his curiosity and would not kill anyone now. He wanted to know what Ray had to say. Hannibal unlocked the door and Ray started in past him, but stopped as he recognized the look on Hannibal’s face.

  “Hey, Paco.” Ray grasped Hannibal’s shoulders. “You’re not looking too good. And whew, what is that? You been in there drinking alone all night?”

  “Not yet,” Hannibal said. “And the smell is so strong because I dropped a glass and spilled a while ago. But never mind that. What did you mean about Dani Gana not being for real?”

  “He ain’t,” Ray said. He brushed past Hannibal to drop heavily into the chair Hannibal had vacated a few seconds earlier. “You remember you said he needed a driver for a couple days? Well, I called him and set it up. Thanks, by the way, for the lead. Bachir says he’s one hell of a tipper.”

  “Bachir?” Hannibal asked, still standing in the doorway.

  “Yeah. He’s Algerian. I figured your man would like having a driver from the same country, you know?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Right, only Bachir says he ain’t. While they were driving today he started talking to him in that crazy stuff they speak.”

  “Arabic,” Hannibal said. “You saying Gana don’t speak Arabic?”

  Ray pulled a thin cigar out of his pocket. “No, Bachir says he speaks it fine. Just got the wrong accent. Now, Bachir says they speak the same language in all the Arab countries, but it’s all different. You know, like guys from Texas speak English, but they don’t sound like guys from here.”

  “So your man says Gana isn’t Algerian.”

  “Says this guy’s probably never been in Algeria,” Ray said, pulling out an ancient Zippo lighter and puffing his cigar into life.

  “OK, then where’s he from?”

  “He don’t know,” Ray said. “Says there are like twenty other countries he might be from. Bachir just says that for sure he ain’t Algerian. Say, you going to offer me some of that?” Ray hooked his thumb toward the half-empty second bottle of vodka.

  “Why don’t you grab it and let’s go,” Hannibal said, taking one step into the hallway. I was about to turn in anyway. You can take the bottle on up to your room and finish it. I really don’t need to drink any more.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said, standing and grabbing the bottle by its neck. “I can see that for sure.”

  12

  Friday

  Morning brought shifting clouds and the first truly cool breeze of the season. Driving into the city of Fairfax, Virginia, Hannibal’s thoughts were also gray and shifting. If Ray’s driver was right, Gana wasn’t really a native Algerian but he very much wanted people to believe he was. He must have been a world-class confidence man to have done the kind of deep background research necessary to answer Hannibal’s questions. In Hannibal’s experience, the only people who knew their legends that well were in the espionage business. If his enemies were actually hunting a spy, Viktoriya might really be in danger just standing too close to him.

  But Hannibal’s houseguest was much more confounding. Was he capable of killing the father of the woman he loved? Hannibal wasn’t sure, so he decided to take him up on his suggestion and talk to the police.

  A quick Internet search brought up old newspaper reports and gave him the few sketchy facts made public about Nikita Petrova’s death. One of those facts was the name of the primary investigating detective and that fact made Hannibal smile. He knew that name.

  He parked in the large lot attached to the county building complex because an earlier call had told him that the man he nee
ded to talk to was testifying in court that morning. He loaded his cell phone, loose change, and automatic into his glove compartment. He wouldn’t need them, and he wanted to avoid as much drama as possible at the metal detectors.

  Once inside, he sat at the back of a courtroom, waiting for the detective’s turn to testify. He did so in concise terms, with the kind of fanatic accuracy that makes it almost impossible for opposing council to reinterpret the facts. When he was finished, he nodded to the judge and left the stand with little fanfare. At the same time, Hannibal left his seat for the nearest exit.

  He was beside the door for less than a minute before saw the detective approaching him. As usual, he wore a tan suit and a bulldog’s expression. His straw-colored hair was still cut in a severe, military style, and his blue eyes still spoke of how dangerous he could be. He stopped in front of Hannibal, his hands going to his hips.

  “Well, if it isn’t Hannibal Jones, defender of the innocent.”

  “Orson Rissik,” Hannibal said with a smile. “Prosecutor of the guilty. I see you’re still bringing them in and locking them up.”

  “That’s what they pay me to do,” Rissik said. “But what brings you to the courthouse today? One of your clients in trouble?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see you,” Hannibal said. “Can I buy you lunch?”

  Rissik shrugged. “Sure. I’ve got a pretty short break and I was about to walk down the hill to get a sandwich. Come on.”

  The two men crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk. Hannibal didn’t usually like to work with the police because so many of them had their own agenda. Orson Rissik had only one agenda that Hannibal knew of. He wanted to put criminals in jail.

  “So, you said you were looking for me but you didn’t say why.”

  “I wanted to get some information related to a case I’m working on right now,” Hannibal said. “I need details on the Petrova murder.”

  “That was three or four years ago,” Rissik said, his brows pulling together. “A real tragedy. He left a wife and daughter, I think.”

  “That’s the one. I’m just trying to find out if it was officially declared a murder.”

  “That was three years ago,” Rissik said. “You expect me to have the details of the case off the top of my head?”

  “I know you, Orson,” Hannibal said. “There’s a reason you made chief of detectives. You never let go of the important stuff, because you know that a lot of times these cases circle back on you.”

  Rissik nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “Okay, that case sticks in my mind for a couple reasons. At first, I wasn’t even sure it was him. The ID was kind of difficult.”

  “I can imagine. I hear he did a face plant off a roof.”

  Rissik stopped to pull the restaurant door open. “The roof of a six-story office building. Splat. Like a bag of beef stew.”

  Hannibal shuddered. “Colorful metaphor, Chief. Hey, is this where you want to eat? I thought we’d go to a restaurant.”

  “Subway is a restaurant,” Rissik said. “It’s close and quick. And like I said, you can buy me a sandwich.” Turning away from Hannibal, he ordered roast beef and mayo on whole wheat. The counter girl was making it before he spoke. Hannibal figured he ate the same thing every time he walked in, which must have been often.

  “OK, so he was hard to identify. How’d you know it was him?” Hannibal glanced at the menu and ordered the lunch special without really noticing what it was.

  “His wallet was lying on the roof, next to a Tag Heuer Kirium Quartz that his wife identified as his.” They sat in a booth and both men glanced at the Porsche titanium watch on Hannibal’s wrist that was a Christmas gift from Cindy and at the more modest Esquire watch Rissik wore that was surely a present from his wife. Hannibal was the only one who was a little embarrassed.

  “Leaving things like a watch and wallet behind is typical of suicides, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” Rissik said. “Or of a killer wanting to make his work look like a suicide.”

  “So you traced him from ID in his wallet, and his wife ID’d the body,” Hannibal said, unwrapping his lunch. He thought it would be an extraordinary killer indeed who would leave a two-thousand-dollar watch behind.

  “Right. His clothes and other effects allowed her to be pretty darned sure it was her husband. Besides, she said he had been threatening suicide for a while.”

  “Really?” Hannibal took the first bite of his sandwich. He savored the flavor of the variety of meats and cheeses that together formed the taste he associated with “sub sandwich.” As soon as his mouth was empty, he asked, “Was he depressed? I thought his life was pretty good.”

  “She said he was worried about all the debt he was in,” Rissik said, almost finished with his food. “And I guess he had some war injuries that bothered him.”

  “So he talked about suicide, prepared like a suicide, and you haven’t mentioned any real evidence of foul play. Why a murder investigation?”

  “You know how these things work, Jones,” Rissik said. He finished his food, folded the paper into a neat bundle, and shoved it into the bag. “If we rule suicide right away, that stops the investigation. And I’m sure you know that he had mob connections. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “You think maybe he owed money to some gangster who had him taken out?”

  Rissik raised a finger, signaling caution. “Now don’t put words in my mouth. There was absolutely no evidence of foul play in that death. And believe me, I looked. Of course, Raisa insisted that she had no idea who was holding the marker on this big debt she kept hearing about. But who knows. If I wasn’t a cop, maybe she’d have told me more. If I wasn’t a cop, I’d sure ask her.”

  “Subtle, Chief, real subtle. But you know, I might just take the hint.”

  The people who live in Fairfax County, Virginia, think they deal with hateful traffic. Because he did most of his driving in the District, Hannibal knew better. The highway out of Fairfax, I-66, was well populated, but at least traffic was moving. It wasn’t until he hit the Key Bridge that driving turned to crawling. The last couple of miles were horrific, thanks to some very narrow streets that people still parked on. He had to fight his way through the rabbit’s warren of Georgetown to reach Mrs. Petrova’s house. He hoped that when he got there she would give him some of the answers he needed.

  Navigating this way through a side street, Hannibal again spotted the brown Saturn. He figured Cochran must be on the job, spying on Gana just a couple of blocks away. Maybe he was on the side of the good guys after all. He was certainly dedicated if he was leaving his car on a Washington side street again and again.

  “Parked in the exact same place,” Hannibal muttered to himself. “What are the odds?”

  Then he thought about his own words. What were the odds? It seemed more likely that the car had not moved since the day before. Why would Cochran leave his car there?

  Curiosity made Hannibal pull over and park in the nearest spot, almost a block away. As he walked toward Cochran’s car, a vague sense of unease grew inside him, matching the dark clouds above. When he reached the car, his feelings seemed to be confirmed. It was parked a couple of feet too close to the fire hydrant. Tickets slipped under the windshield wiper indicated that the car had been in the same place since the morning before. Hannibal tugged on the door handle and was surprised when it opened. No one would leave a car illegally parked for so long, not on purpose, and certainly not unlocked. Maybe something had happened to the snoop, something more than having his camera smashed.

  Hannibal went back to his car. He still didn’t know who Cochran was, but he had his doubts that the man could be in the employ of Muslim terrorists. And if Gana was lying about that, then Cochran’s story might be true. He could be an inept private eye, in over his head. And that meant that he might actually know something useful. He might also be in serious danger, or even lying somewhere hurt.

  But before searching the hospitals and
morgues, Hannibal figured he’d see if Cochran was just nursing a minor injury in his hotel room. And since Cochran had commented that he was “stuck in the Ramada,” Hannibal figured he wouldn’t be too hard to find. He turned out to be registered at the second hotel Hannibal called, just outside the District in Silver Spring, Maryland.

  Whatever information Raisa Petrova was holding, it would keep. Right then Hannibal thought that finding Ben Cochran might tell him more about Gana. He took the short drive up Georgia Avenue to the chosen Ramada Inn. A bored desk clerk with a serious acne problem gave him the room number. He knocked on the door, then stepped back to make sure he was visible through the little peephole. Feet tapped to the door on the other side, followed by a few seconds of silence. He heard the deadbolt turn, and the door opened in. He was surprised to find himself facing a buxom redhead.

  “What can I do for you, handsome?”

  13

  “I’m sorry,” Hannibal said. “I was looking for Ben Cochran.”

  “And you got his wife instead,” she replied, presenting her hand.

  “Hannibal Jones,” he said, taking her hand. She shook firmly, like a man, and looked him in the eye as she did.

  “You can call me Queenie. Come on in. How do you know Ben?”

  The woman’s red hair went down to the roots, but it was up in the big-hair style that Hannibal hoped would some day go out of style even in the Deep South. Walking behind her, he could not help but notice her figure. The woman was heavy-chested and broad-hipped, but everything was in the right proportions. Her American flag t-shirt and jeans were just a tiny bit too tight, but that only accented her shape, which Hannibal would have described as robust. He thought that perhaps this was what happened to a woman if she quit pole-dancing cold turkey.

  “I bumped into Ben because we were watching the same guy.”

  “You’re shitting me,” Queenie said, slapping a pack of Camels against her index finger to make one of the cigarettes pop out. She captured it with her lips and slid it free of the pack.