Blood and Bone (22 page)

Hannibal stalked through the house away from Mortimer as quickly as he could without running. His rage may have bubbled out of him if he had not met Kyle in his wheelchair at the door. A tie and dinner jacket wrapped the boy's skeletal frame, his head almost bald but not shining because the same chemotherapy which killed the roots of his hair drained the oils from his skin.

“Mister Jones,” Kyle called. “I was afraid I might not ever see you again. But I want to make sure you're around after the transplant, when I'm up and around.”

Hannibal stopped to take Kyle's hand. “Don't worry. You're not rid of me. My job for your grandfather is over, but you're still my client, and my job for you isn't done.”

As he climbed into his car, Hannibal realized how contracted his time schedule had become. Harlan could begin legal action Monday morning to change his will, maybe even to adopt Angela. Certainly he
would move to legally change her last name. And since Nieswand was his lawyer, Hannibal could lose his most valuable ally to a conflict of interest by then. So Sunday would have to be a work day. He hit an autodial button on his phone while be pulled out of Mortimer's driveway. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

“Hello, this is Cindy.”

“Hi babe. I need some help, a legal overwatch, but it'll mean working tomorrow.”

“For you, lover?” Cindy said. “Anything. What's up?”

“A long flight,” he answered. “Ever been to Texas?”

Stepping out of Corpus Christi International Airport, Hannibal was grateful to Cindy for convincing him not to wear his traditional work clothes. She said he might intimidate people who were used to a more casual, relaxed, Southwest style. Whether or not she was right, he now agreed a black suit and tie were inappropriate dress for springtime in east Texas.

By twelve-thirty, when they arrived, the temperature had already crossed the ninety degree mark on its way to beyond one hundred. The sun looked twice as bright to him here and, despite Corpus Christi sitting on the coast, he detected not the slightest breeze. Yes, he would have died in his black suit and tie. Not that he strayed far from his personal norm. He walked into Texas in a short sleeved white dress shirt and neatly pressed navy blue walking shorts. The biggest change for him was having to carry his backup Colt Mustang in an overnight case, instead of his full size Sig Sauer in a holster.

Cindy was dressed as Hannibal was but somehow it looked so much better on her, partly because while he left his top shirt button open, she left three. She wore the Oakley sunglasses he gave her and a ruby
pendant nestled snugly into her cleavage, an unnecessary draw for any passerby's attention.

Once in his rented Lincoln Town Car, Hannibal set the air conditioner at the maximum setting and handed Cindy a map of the city he picked up at the rental counter.

“See if you can find the library on that thing, babe,” Hannibal said. “On Sunday, it's our best shot at finding a phone book. And that's our best chance of finding Edwina Briggs.”

Corpus Christi was a pleasant surprise to Hannibal. He was expecting bowlegged cowpokes in ten gallon hats with guns on their hips. In fact, he found a civilized urban community not unlike what he was accustomed to, except somehow these people managed to keep their city fairly clean.

The ride through town reminded him of a fact he did not like to dwell on. In his teens he saved his money, bought a Europass, and explored the continent with a handful of adventurous friends. Since landing in the United States, he had worked hard at building a law enforcement career first in New York, then in Washington. When that soured, he worked at building a business of his own. As a result, he belatedly realized, he knew Europe much better than he knew his own country outside the narrow strip between New York City and northern Virginia.

The white pages at the library led them to a small cottage near the Gulf. They parked half a block away and got out of their car to look around before knocking on the door. Hannibal could swear the temperature was fifteen degrees lower on the coast, and a gentle breeze did bring the tang of salt air. Between cottages, he could see the island across the Laguna Madres.

“I've read the Padre Island out there has one of the ten best beaches in the country,” Hannibal said. “Fishing. Wind surfing. What would you think of this for a vacation?”

“Looks like a gorgeous vacation spot,” Cindy agreed. “I've spotted a dozen restaurants I'd love to try, and the shopping looks fabulous.”

Hannibal chose to say nothing more, but went to the house and rang the doorbell. After a moment, a bell clear voice said, “out back.” After the slightest hesitation, Hannibal took Cindy's hand and followed the flagstone path around the house. In back they found three long rows of bushes. Cindy gasped at the beauty, and Hannibal had to admit it was a sight to move the hardest heart. A rainbow of roses glowed on the bushes: red, white, pink, yellow, orange, even some with black trimmed edges. Near the far end of the center row, a woman in white awaited them. Her hat brim hid her face from visitors, but when she stood, Hannibal caught sight of parchment skin and bright blue eyes. She was small boned, but her posture was dramatically erect. A proud woman, he thought, aging gracefully in her garden by the sea.

“Well here are a couple of new faces,” she said in a gentle drawl.

“Are you Edwina Briggs?” Hannibal asked, trying not to be hypnotized by the unbelievable sweetness of the garden's perfume.

“Probably. Why?”

Cindy stepped forward, letting her eyes wander to the roses on her right. “These are so beautiful. Miss Briggs, my name is Cynthia Santiago. I'm an attorney. This is Hannibal Jones. We've come a long way to talk to you about your late brother, Sam.”

Edwina seemed to consider this, then she sat on a small stool and began pruning a rose bush. She moved the small shears with great care, nipping the bushes as if they might scream if she cut too close. “Did you know my brother?”

Cindy looked at Hannibal. He indicated she should continue. She squatted next to the older woman. “No, ma'am, neither of us knew him, but we've met a young woman who claims to be his adopted daughter. Did you know her?”

“Could be,” Edwina said, sparing no attention from her roses. The sound of each snip carried a grim finality. “What's her name?”

“Angela,” Cindy said. “Black and Latin, thin pointed nose, full lips, quite beautiful.”

“Even teeth and real bright eyes,” Edwina added. “Refused to wear glasses, even though she needed them. Yes, I knew her.”

Hannibal and Cindy exchanged a glance, then Cindy asked “Did she stay with you after your brother passed away?”

“She was only what, sixteen, seventeen when Sam died?” Edwina said. “No, she went and got herself a room in town. Rented from Shawn Boyd, boy I went to high school with.” She flashed a nostalgic smile, then went on pruning her roses.

“I think I'd like to talk to him,” Hannibal said, almost to himself. Edwina never looked at him, but now he noticed she was watching Cindy, whose eye had been attracted to a particular rose. It was a blood red cup, yet the edges of its petals paled almost to translucence. She stretched a finger toward it, but appeared afraid to touch a thing of such delicacy.

“Go on,” Edwina said. “Take it. Your beauty will complement it.”

Cindy plucked the stem from its limb and lifted the flower to her nose. “Miss Briggs, why wasn't Angela's name mentioned in your brother's obituary?”

Without missing a beat, Edwina said “Because I wrote it.”

“Didn't you like Angela?” Hannibal asked.

Edwina stood up and took three or four steps down the row. Hannibal lifted her stool and placed it where she wanted to sit. She smiled a thank you.

“There was something about that child,” Edwina said. “Something cold. Dead inside. What's she doing now?”

“As it turns out,” Cindy said, peering into her new rose, “she appears to be related to a rather wealthy family in Virginia. We're just checking her background, but it looks as though she's coming up roses.”

Edwina lowered her pruning shears and looked up, first at Cindy, then to address Hannibal. “Know why these roses smell so sweet? Eh? It's because of all the manure down around their roots. They grow up in manure, and they smell so sweet and climb so far because they're trying to get away from those roots. Let me give you Shawn Boyd's address.”

Like any city, Corpus Christi has its high rent districts, its slums, and its in between places, populated by older people trying to survive. Homes there are older, smaller, less modern, but well kept up. Over the years, some of the larger older homes get recast as boarding houses. Like Shawn Boyd's house. It reminded Hannibal of Wayne Manor in old Batman comic books, except this place was crouching behind a wall of perfectly manicured hedges. As he parked across the street, Hannibal saw he and Cindy could again avoid going inside. The white haired
gentleman rocking on the front porch had to be the owner.

“You must be the two strangers Edwina called about,” the older man said as they approached.

“And you're Mister Boyd?” Cindy asked.

“Nope, I'm Shawn,” he said, leaning forward in his chair and extending a hand. “My father is Mister Boyd. Now, what can I do for you folks?” Shawn did not look frail exactly, just tired. He wore overalls despite the heat, and heavy work shoes. Hannibal found his handshake firm, even though he could feel every bone in the man's hand.

“We're trying to find out about Angela Briggs,” Cindy said, dropping into a green wicker chair. “Do you remember her?”

“Angela? Of course. Stayed right up there in number four.”

“Did she have visitors,” Cindy asked. “Was she traveling with anybody?”

“She'd have a boy up now and again,” Shawn said. “Can't say I ever saw any of them twice.”

“Miss Briggs didn't seem to know her very well,” Hannibal said, leaning against a porch support beam. “Did you ever talk with her?”

“Of course,” Shawn said. “I always chat with my boarders. It's funny how willing people always seem to sit and talk to an old man. Or else they're just real polite.”

Shawn gave a little chuckle, then focused on Hannibal. He seemed to be waiting for more questions, so Hannibal tossed one. “Did she ever give any indication she might be from the East Coast?”

Shawn's chuckle almost burst into a guffaw. “East Coast? Mister, that little girl come from due south of here, right over the Mexican border. Little town called
Esmeralda. She didn't cross over but a couple months before she hooked up with old Sam Briggs.”

“What?” Cindy lurched forward to the edge of her chair. “She tell you that herself?”

“Told me when she first got here.” Shawn knew he had something good, and he held it for a moment, purposely creating suspense. “Angela stayed here a couple of months while she got herself together. Mighty young to be traveling alone, but she was tough enough to make it.”

Hannibal stood still, but his left middle finger began slowly drumming against the pillar. He thought he may finally have turned over the right rock. He was almost afraid to ask what he wanted to know, for fear Shawn would know how important the answers would be to him. He asked anyway, speaking as softly as he could.

“So you knew her before she was Angela Briggs.”

“Heck, yeah,” Shawn said, clearly pleased he was being of such value. “When I met her she was Patty Johnson.”

“Johnson?” Cindy asked. “That's an awfully American name for a Mexican girl.”

“Do y'all know her?” Shawn asked. His eyes narrowed with disbelief. “Anybody can see the girl's not all Mexican. Some black blood in there somewhere. I figure an American give her life, then give her that name. Besides, all you had to do was look at her.”

“Meaning?” Hannibal asked.

Shawn rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head at his visitor's ignorance. “Look around you boy. How many faces like yours you seen today?”

Hannibal's brow wrinkled as he considered the old man's words. Maybe half the people he had seen
since he arrived in Corpus Christi were Hispanic. Almost all the rest were white. How unusual Angela's appearance must have been here. How much more south of the border, he wondered. Did it make her enough of an outcast to be willing to do anything to change her life? Even to abandoning her family? He looked at Cindy and shrugged with his whole body. Pursue this to the end of the trail?

She smiled and shook her head, cocked to one side. I suppose so. Then she reached to touch the old man's arm.

“Shawn, do you suppose there's any chance we might find Angela's real parents?”

“I suppose,” he said. For the first time he avoided her eyes, trying to make contact with Hannibal. “Esmeralda's a pretty small town, just south of Rio Bravo, not twenty miles into Mexico. You can just ask for the black couple. Any man you see can tell you where they are, because Angela's mother runs the, eh,” Shawn was stuck for words for a moment. His voice became low. “You know, the local bordello. The cat house.”

In calling Esmeralda a pretty small town, Shawn Boyd had understated the case by half. After four hours on roads designed to torture the American luxury automobile, Hannibal pushed his rented Town Car down an unpaved street which was dry and flat as a stale tortilla. Eyes followed him down the street, mostly children's eyes. Houses here were adobe. Only businesses lived in brick or stucco buildings. The few vehicles he saw were four wheel drive or ancient pickup trucks with huge steel bodies.

The almost empty streets and the overall quiet testified to the time of day. Hannibal guessed by four o'clock most of the day's activity was over, the night time action not yet begun. Beside him, Cindy was half asleep, bouncing easily with the gentle vibrations of the car's motion. She was clearly more relaxed, more comfortable in this situation than he was.