Collateral Damage (10 page)

“What if he's telling the truth? What if he really is keeping secrets because he loves her and doesn't want her involved?”

His fork dug into the baked layers of rice and chicken and cheese that stretched out as he lifted the food. Monterey jack,
he thought, and maybe Parmesan. “Is that how it works when it's love? If you were in trouble, would you keep it from me, babe?”

Cindy's answer was disrupted by a knock on the door. Actually, the knock was across the hall. Chewing slowly, Hannibal looked up at Cindy. They were quiet for a moment, then she sighed and shook her head sadly.

“If they're at your office door at this hour, they could be in real trouble. No point pretending you don't need to see who it is.”

“Better be life and death!” Hannibal wiped his mouth on a napkin and went out into the hall. His living room door was near the back of the building, so he walked past the basement door under the wide staircase to the other side before he could see who was standing at the front of the building, worrying his office door with their knuckles.

“I can't believe he's gone this early,” Irma Andrews muttered, staring at the door as if she could open it with the power of her stare.

“How the hell did you find me?” Hannibal asked from the other end of the building. She jumped but recovered quickly and stalked toward him, her heels clicking like gunshots in the hallway.

“Backtracked your phone number. Reporters have to be resourceful, or didn't they tell you? And once I saw the address, I figured it must be your residence as well.”

“Actually, I live across the hall,” Hannibal said. “Why don't you come in and tell me what's so important you came all the way into The District….”

“You broke your word, Jones,” she said, moving past him toward his front door. One foot inside, her eyes met Cindy's. Irma stopped in her tracks, taking in the food on the table and Hannibal's half finished meal. “Oh, sorry. Didn't realize.”

Cindy recovered quickly, standing and offering her hand for Irma's reluctant shake. “No bother, come on in. I'm Cindy Santiago, and I didn't realize Hannibal's acquaintances included famous TV news reporters. Won't you join us?”

“Oh no, I couldn't. I mean…”

“What do you mean by that?” Hannibal asked, closing the door behind himself. “I keep my word with everybody, even pushy reporters.”

The three of them stood there for a moment, Irma's eyes bouncing from Cindy to Hannibal and back. Then Cindy turned to the cabinet over the sink.

“I'm getting another plate. You can speak plainly to Hannibal, Ms. Andrews. I promise not to get involved.”

“Well, that does smell delicious, and I love Mexican food,” Irma said, pulling a chair out but still standing. “But I hate to intrude. I just wanted to ask Mister Jones about a story. A story that he assured me he'd call me about if anything came of it.”

Hannibal returned to his chair and under Cindy's stare Irma joined them at the table. “I haven't eaten, as a matter of fact,” Irma said, pushing her fork into the rice mixture.

“Actually, this is Cuban,” Hannibal said. Then to Cindy, “Irma helped me with that video of Dean Edwards, Cindy. I told her if it looked like news I'd give her a call. But so far it looks pretty tame.”

Irma was about to launch an outburst, but her taste buds short-circuited that. “Oh my, this is delicious! Now, Mister Jones, do you expect me to believe you didn't know that family's tragic history?”

“History?” Hannibal asked. “I know almost nothing about this guy. Enlighten me.”

Irma looked to Cindy who smiled broadly. “Aside from his cook, I'm also Hannibal's lawyer. I understand confidentiality, if that's a concern for you, Ms. Andrews.”

“Please call me Irma,” the reporter said. “And I don't think there's a legal problem here, I just wouldn't want to get scooped if the story got out, you know?”

“I can assure you Cindy won't talk to any competing reporters,” Hannibal said. “Now how do you come to know Edwards' background?”

“Well after the interest you showed, I just had a feeling there might be a story there. So I took a look for Dean Edwards in the station's story database. What I found was his
mother, who was convicted of murdering his father a little more than ten years ago.” Irma's eyes became intense as her story evolved, and Hannibal could see her excitement at digging into the facts and finding a story. She was one of those people who got real joy from her job. “I searched out the video archives so I could hear the entire story, and got a look at his mother. The same woman who came looking for his picture before you.”

Hannibal sat back from the table. “His mother. Maybe she just now found him.”

“Sure,” Cindy put in. “And he didn't want to have to tell Bea about his mom killing his own dad, so he ran. Poor boy. I hope he comes clean to her. She can certainly handle it.”

Irma looked lost so Hannibal filled her in. “There's no crime involved with my job as far as I know, Irma. The person who hired me to find Dean Edwards is his fiancée. But seems to me she deserves to know what you found out. Maybe I can even bring mother and prospective daughter-in-law together.”

“Unlikely,” Irma said. “She's gone.” Now it was Hannibal's turn to look lost. Irma chewed a bit longer than she needed to, as if she was reluctant to continue. Hannibal's eyes prodded her, and they caught her attention.

“They're hazel, aren't they?” she asked. “Not green as I first thought, or even blue, but hazel.” He nodded. “Black people don't have hazel eyes. Beautiful, though.”

“So glad you approve,” Hannibal said through a flat expression. “What do you mean she's gone?”

“Look I had the address, it looked like a story, you know, long lost son reunited with jailbird mother. So I went to that motel. Geez, what a dive. But the new husband, this Irons guy, tells me she ran off last night some time.”

“Damn.” Hannibal stood and paced into the next room, the living room. “I scared the woman off. I didn't know who she was. Never considered why she might be keeping such a low profile. I assume you questioned the poor Irons guy.”

“Well I asked him a couple questions,” Irma said, following Hannibal into the living room. Irma's face reflected
a degree of excitement that brought a bad taste into Hannibal's mouth. “He confirmed her conviction, but of course he says she was framed. And he did say she saw a boy a few days ago who might be her son.”

Cindy set a cup of coffee on an end table. With her hands she directed Hannibal to sit beside it, but her eyes were on Irma. “Clearly she didn't want a lot of attention. Maybe she and Dean have run off together. Coffee?”

All eyes turned to the telephone when it rang. To Hannibal, it was one more unwelcome intruder barging in at a bad time. He picked it up, but the tone of his hello was not very inviting.

“You need to come right away,” the panicked voice said. “I don't know what to do. It's, it's horrible.”

“Bea?” Hannibal asked.

“I'm in that horrible little place over the garage,” Bea said through her sobs. “Please. It's horrible. Dean he, he's in more trouble than I ever…please, please come right away.”

Hannibal was not a happy man mounting the dark narrow staircase to the apartment above the Kitteridge three-car garage. First because he didn't know what he was heading into. But mostly because of the company.

As he pushed the door open he could hear Cindy and Irma behind him jostling for position. He was always pleased to have Cindy along on a case, but his skin jumped at the thought of being shadowed by a reporter. He wished now he had told her no, but he really didn't know how. And now she'd have her story.

The lights were on beyond the door Hannibal opened. The room was modestly furnished with mobile home type furniture and smelled as if the air had not been disturbed in a century. His attention was first drawn to the soft sobbing coming from the room beyond the nearly square living room. From that door, he traced the trail across the thin carpet back to his own feet. With his arms Hannibal directed the women
around him on either side to prevent them from stepping on the series of red footprints pointing into the bedroom beyond. It was a man's spoor, in the pattern of an unusual shoe sole, a running shoe in fact, the unique Brooks Radius SC running shoes Dean wore at work that day.

Hannibal had to pull back on the tails of Irma's jacket to enter the bedroom first. The twin size bed projected from the wall to the right. Dean lay on his side curled into a fetal position. His shoes lay at the foot of the bed. Bea knelt beside the bed clutching his hands. Her face had been pressed against his but when Hannibal stepped into the room she looked up. A small smile broke through the dampness covering her face.

“Praise the Lord you're here,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “I didn't know what in the world to do.”

Irma only got as far as, “Who is” before Hannibal's finger in her face froze the question in her throat.

“Don't you say a single word,” Hannibal said. “In fact, I think you'd better be out of here right now.”

Irma took a deep breath and leaned her determination right up against Hannibal's. “If I leave now I go straight to the station with the story, as much as I know.”

Cindy pulled Irma aside. “Let's negotiate.”

Hannibal ignored Cindy and Irma. “Okay Dean, this does not look good. Please tell me that isn't blood all over your shoes.”

When Dean raised his head Hannibal hardly recognized him. The nervous kid Hannibal met at Kitteridge Computer Systems had been replaced by a dull-eyed man who fixed him with an empty stare. He had run from a manic state to what looked like clinical depression. He nodded slowly and managed to say, “It is.”

“Whose?”

Dean's face collapsed on itself. “Oscar's. It's Oscar's. Oscar Peters is dead. Mama's done it again.”

Hannibal turned from Dean to follow the red trail out the door. Not the end of the journey after all, but the first step.

The blood on Dean's shoes was fresh enough to retain its copper smell. The single bedside lamp shed just enough light for Hannibal to see there was no sign of struggle on Dean's face or hands. And the boy was hardly coherent enough to fill in much more. But Hannibal was overwhelmed by the implications of this new development, and his ordered mind wanted to close out one job before starting another. He stepped close to the bed, looking down at the fragile creature curled up on top of it.

“Dean, is Mary Irons your mother?”

“Irons?” Words came slowly, as if Dean was talking through a fog. “Oh, yes, she said she was using Mary Irons. Mary is her middle name. She's really Francis. Did she really marry again?”

Hannibal settled a hand on Bea's shoulder. He only had one comforting fact and he figured she needed it. “The woman who went to your apartment Saturday to see Dean wasn't a rival. It was his mother, Francis.”

At the other end of the room, Cindy stood inches from Irma's face, speaking in low but intense tones. “What will it take for you to hold everything you know about this situation in strictest confidence?”

“Ah, someone I can deal with,” Irma said, smiling in the subtle conspiracy all successful businesswomen have to be part of. “Look, all I want is the story. If I can stay I won't reveal anything to anyone until and unless the principals give me permission. Unless of course a crime has been committed.”

Cindy returned Irma's smile. “If a crime has been committed in connection with this case, you will still maintain that confidence. You will not reveal any facts until the police already have them.” Cindy held out her hand. Irma took it. Cindy whispered, “If you go back on this deal, I swear to God I'll terminate your career.”

“As I will yours if you contradict anything I know to be the truth with a lie in court.” The women nodded their agreement and shook again as a sign of professional respect. Then Cindy turned back to her man.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, Hannibal, but has anyone called the police yet?”

“Police?” Bea's eyes were wide with fear. “No. They'll put my poor Dean in jail. He's in no condition. Look at him. Mister Jones, now that you've found him won't you protect him? Please?”

Hannibal rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “I'm on board as long as you want me,” he said, but his eyes were on Cindy. He was always grateful for her ability to maintain the practical and legal views. “How much trouble are we in if we don't call the cops?”

“Probably none, until we confirm that a crime's been committed,” Cindy said. “Mister Edwards, it looks as if you'll need legal representation very soon. Do you have a lawyer?”

Dean shook his head slowly.

“Can you represent him?” Bea asked. “Can I retain you on his behalf.”