Blood and Bone (21 page)

“She stayed in that one room most of the time.” Jewel was again following Hannibal as he paced
around her. “When she came out she would talk, and she seemed pretty nice. And pretty lonely. She was, what do you call that? A kept woman, right? The guy was black and pretty big, and he was paying the bills. But he only came back to the room to, you know, for service.” Hannibal's face must have shown his distaste because she added, “That's the way some guys are.” Hannibal nodded and pulled his jacket back on.

“Where to?” Sarge asked. “Trouble?”

“Not your kind,” Hannibal said, his voice hard. “I feel the need to talk to Mister Nieswand about his wife's extracurricular activities. Who knows? Maybe she can give me a lead to the Jersey mob.”

When Hannibal pulled into Nieswand's driveway, he was thinking about how much territory he had covered on what should have been a quiet Saturday. Lunch in a clinic meant to be a bright spot in the lowest of slum neighborhoods. Then to a police station in the supposedly higher class suburbs. Back to the inner city in time to see a pimp take a header. And now, back to Oakton, probably to see one of its upper class citizens hit rock bottom himself, figuratively if not literally.

Walking up the flagstone path toward the door of Nieswand's huge brick colonial house, he considered how much its owner's life had changed in the last week. Today, no trusted chauffeur would hassle visitors about where they parked. And for now, he had no drug dependent wife to hide away. Despite the brochures, Hannibal decided, sometimes gracious country living sucks.

The doorbell was a cheerful series of chimes. A minute later, Gabriel Nieswand pulled the door open. His hairpiece was slightly askew and he did not appear to care. He looked somehow unnatural in a knit golf shirt and Dockers. Bags under his eyes and the glass in his hand explained his condition better than a painted sign would.

“Hello. Didn't expect to see you again.”

“Thought I should give you a final report concerning the case,” Hannibal said. For lawyers, keep it formal. It usually worked. “May I come in for a moment?”

“Glad to have the company,” Nieswand said, swinging the door fully open. Hannibal closed it behind himself and followed his host across the marble floor through his two story foyer, then down three steps into a plush den. Classical music was coming from somewhere. Nieswand dropped onto a love seat and motioned Hannibal to the overstuffed chair by the antique globe.

“Help yourself to a drink,” Nieswand said, waving his own glass toward the bar. “I'm having scotch myself. There's quite a variety. I've probably sampled it all sometime in the past week.”

Pain leaked out of Nieswand's eyes, and Hannibal felt a little guilty taking advantage of it. But his need to know overrode any other feelings he had. “No drinks for me, thanks. I'm driving. But how have you been? How's your wife doing?”

Nieswand stared into his half empty glass as if it were a crystal ball. “I'm doing about as well as expected with my wife twenty miles away in a private hospital. She has a substance abuse problem, Mister Jones. Finding a corpse in our garage seems to have pushed her over the edge into actual schizophrenia.
Her grip on reality has weakened, or so Lawrence Lippincott says.”

“I see.” Hannibal sat forward on the edge of his chair, hands folded, elbows on knees, the picture of sincere concern. “I think you're bearing up well. You know, a friend of mine thinks he might have met your wife. Were you vacationing in Atlantic City last year, by any chance?”

Nieswand's eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “We avoid places like that Mister Jones. Too much of a temptation, what with all the liquor and drugs about.”

“That's funny,” Hannibal said, “my friend is sure he saw her up there. Described her well, and you do have a fairly uncommon name.”

“Last year?” Nieswand leaned back with his eyes closed. A closer inspection of his memory, Hannibal assumed. “My wife disappeared for a few days last year. God knows where she went. Maybe up to that sinful place. They say the seventh year of marriage is tough for men, but for my Abby it was, I don't know, maybe she just felt too restricted. Anyway, she came back and I didn't ask a whole lot of questions. I was just glad to have her back. I love my wife very much, Mister Jones.”

Nieswand gulped the last of his drink, and Hannibal gulped too. His throat was dry with self hatred. It was wrong, cruel, unfair for him to continue. But Hannibal's religion was the truth and he would not betray his idol. “Does your wife have friends in New Jersey, Mister Nieswand?”

Nieswand's answer was almost too low to hear. “I don't know.” Then he turned to Hannibal and the alcohol forced confessional words out his mouth. “I don't know, really. Abby was married before, you see.
I don't know much about her life before me. I know her past wasn't too pretty, though, so I tried to give her everything in the present. I guess it wasn't enough. Maybe you can't outrun the past, eh?” Then a brief wave of clarity crossed Nieswand's face and he stood, stepping purposefully to the bar. As he twisted a Chivas Regal bottle open, he said “I appreciate the ear, but you didn't come by to hear my hard luck story. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Angela Briggs,” Hannibal said, a part of him glad to have the subject changed. “I'm not convinced she's the genuine article, and I'm not alone. I hear Harlan Mortimer has already written her into his will. I think that's premature, and I guess I thought I should tell you that.”

When Nieswand sat down he was the canny attorney again, his clear mind peeling away the layers of what Hannibal said. “You got that from Larry didn't you? You working for him now?”

It took Hannibal a moment to realize Larry was Doctor Lippincott. He remembered now they were introduced to him as friends. “Yes, he's very concerned about the Mortimer family.”

“Really,” Nieswand said, gulping from his drink. “Well you can tell him nothing's been changed in the will, at least not yet. Angela Mortimer, or Briggs if you prefer, is not the recipient of any inheritance. He still gets his money.” Hannibal didn't move but Nieswand went on. “He didn't tell you that, did he? Oh, you've got a good poker face, son, but don't forget I read people for a living. And yes, Larry and his son Mal are both mentioned in the will. More importantly, there's a big lump of funding for Larry's downtown clinic. I think
it represents the sum of Harlan's social conscience. So I don't think Larry qualifies as an objective source.”

“Maybe not,” Hannibal said, “but I don't have any vested interest in this and I personally am not convinced she's the real thing.”

“Look, I'm not saying I can prove who Angela is in a court of law, but the evidence is certainly with her. And besides, the girl's brought the first real joy into that house since Kyle was born.”

Hannibal's hands opened, accenting his plea. “If you don't temper their acceptance of her with some common sense, they could be in for a real crash if she turns out to be a phony.”

Nieswand climbed slowly to his feet. “Let me make this clear, Mister Jones. It makes Harlan Mortimer happy to believe this girl is his long lost granddaughter, his only connection to a son he lost years before he disappeared. If he learns that isn't true, he won't hear it from me.”

Camille Mortimer answered the door in a black gown, diamond earrings and subtle but complete makeup. Her face was warm, aglow with hope. She was transformed from the cool, worried woman he met days ago at this very door.

“Hi,” Camille said, flashing white, even teeth. “We were just heading out. The Kennedy Center and dinner. Were you looking for Angela? I'm so glad you found her. She's like a daughter to me already.”

“Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Harlan,” Hannibal said. Camille waved him inside and left him at the door while she went to fetch her father-in-law. Hannibal looked around, registering again the
hugeness of the house and considering what a daunting job it would be to have to paint the interior of this cavern. As his head slowly panned around he found Angela walking toward him. Her gown was a match for Camille's. Her dark brown hair cascaded down onto her shoulders in natural waves, and high heels showed off sturdy legs. She looked up at Hannibal with a reluctant smile, ready to turn to a frown at a moment's notice.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Hannibal nodded, and followed her through the French doors onto the now deserted deck. When she turned he almost gasped at the change. Gone was any hint of hesitation, or lack of confidence. Her eyes were now diamond hard, her aggressive chin stabbing at him defiantly.

“I don't know why you're after me, but I want you to leave me alone,” she said. “So what's the price to make you back off?”

“The truth,” Hannibal said. “I back off when these people know the truth. Money is important, but it won't take the place of the truth.”

Angela shook her head, her hair fanning out around her as if to blur Hannibal's view. She looked at him with disbelief. “Why are you doing this? I'm not here to hurt anybody. Can't you see I've brought some happiness to this dreary place?”

“Why are you doing this?” Hannibal countered, now sure his suspicions were correct. “Is it really all about money?”

“What do you know?” Angela asked. “You don't know what it's like. Being raised a half-breed. An orphan. To survive, you do what you have to do.”

“I don't know?” Hannibal said in a low voice. He pulled his glasses off and pushed his face into Angela's. “Take a good look.”

Angela stared deep into his hazel eyes, mostly green with his anger right then. “I didn't see before,” she said. “You're like me, aren't you?”

“My father was a black soldier, a military policeman,” Hannibal said, his voice still low but hard now. “My mother was a German girl he met while stationed in Berlin. He left me there when they sent him to Vietnam. But he never came back. My mother raised me in Berlin, among the American military community, at a time when mixed marriages weren't really accepted. Children of those marriages even less so. I think that qualifies me to say I know exactly what you're about. But that don't make me think it's okay for you to commit fraud.”

“What's this about fraud?” Harlan Mortimer stepped onto the deck, looking even bigger than he really was in a navy blue suit and maroon tie. In the time it took Hannibal to get his Oakleys back on his face, Angela went from aggressive to conciliatory, her remarkably facile eyes softened and damp.

“That Doctor Lippincott sent him,” she said, barely avoiding an actual whine. “They think I'm a, a, I don't know what they think I am.”

With one last glance at Hannibal she ran into the house. He was impressed. Her eyes were actually starting to water before she left. How many Hollywood actresses could turn on the tears so fast?

“Well?” Harlan stood with his fists on his ample hips. “Is this true?”

Angela had removed the option of easing into the conversation. “Yes, I am working for Doctor Lippincott now,” Hannibal said. “And I share his doubts about
Angela's background. I just wanted to ask you for a little time to verify her story. And for you to not pin all your hopes for Kyle on this girl until I could.”

Storm clouds gathered on Mortimer's dark face and the top of his ears tinged red. “Now you listen to me young man. Anybody with eyes, who talked to her for more than a few minutes could have no doubt Angela's a Mortimer. And I won't have a member of my family doubted, not even by Larry. You tell that pompous windbag I know what he's up to and it's too late. You understand? Tell that quack he's out of my will as soon as I can get the paperwork done. And tell him I'll get Kyle's medical care from somebody who can be a little more objective from now on. And now I'll thank you to get out of my house before I forget all the good you've done up to now.”