Collateral Damage (12 page)

“It's getting cold.”

“Yes, probably two hours old,” Hannibal said before he realized his mind was not on the same track as Joan's. “Sorry, I guess that sounded pretty callous.”

“No,” Joan said with half a laugh. “I can't think of anything else either.”

Actually Hannibal couldn't get the cupric smell of Oscar's blood out of his mind, but he didn't feel the need to share that with this woman who knew the deceased in business and, as Oscar told it, socially as well. “I suppose you've been thinking about who would want him dead.”

“I know it's a cliché, but as far as I know Oscar didn't have an enemy in the world.” She turned to face Hannibal, staring as if she could see deep into his eyes through his sunglasses. “Can you tell me how a person can do that? Push a knife into another person's body?”

Hannibal could, but chose not to. He leaned against the pillar holding the porch roof up, and felt paint crumble behind his shoulder. “He traveled a lot, didn't he?”

“For business,” Joan replied. “The computer industry holds conventions all over the world. It's an easy way to reward good workers.”

“But none in Europe,” Hannibal said. “None he could take advantage of to visit his parents.”

“He never accepted the trips to Germany,” Joan said. “And I never asked why.”

A siren trailed off as a car with a flashing light on its roof rounded the corner. Two more followed and all parked in front of them. Hannibal knew what to expect and took Joan's arm to pull her to the side on the porch. A dozen or more men flowed out of the three cars like flies from burst melons. Or perhaps bees, Hannibal thought, because they gathered and buzzed around one central figure for a moment, as if getting instructions from the queen in a hive. Then, as if on some silent signal, they surged forward, not looking left or right, straight up the steps and into the house. The one man left outside walked behind them with the slow pace that is the privilege of the man in charge. He stopped in front of Joan, opened a wallet to display his badge and pulled out a notebook.

“Stan Thompson, ma'am. I'm the detective in charge of this investigation. I'll be back in a moment to ask you a few questions if that's all right.” Joan nodded dully at his calm, almost smiling face. Thompson reminded Hannibal of a wall: tall wide and flat. His broad shoulders were part of that image. The pug nose and thin lips highlighted it. Even his straw-like hair seemed two-dimensional. He even wore a stone gray suit. When he turned to enter the house, Hannibal was almost surprised he didn't fall over. But since he was being ignored, he figured he'd follow and learn whatever else he could.

Which, as it turned out, wasn't much. Thompson stood just inside the doorway for maybe a minute staring down at the corpse. Finally, he nodded his head and muttered, “I've seen this before.” Then he turned so suddenly he nearly stepped into Hannibal.

“And you are?” Thompson asked.

Hannibal gave his name as he stepped back onto the porch. Thompson switched on the porch light and turned back to Joan. Hannibal leaned against the low front wall of the porch, to Thompson's left and Joan's right. Thompson stood with pen and pad in hand, focused entirely on the woman before him.

“First I want to thank you for calling us, ma'am. Can you tell me how you came to find the deceased here?”

Whether it was his bluntness or his calmness, or the fact that he made no attempts to establish any kind of rapport with her, Joan was frozen. Her mouth moved a few times but no sound came out. For his part, Thompson stood patiently waiting for her to eventually answer. Hannibal noticed how harsh the lighting was on her face, casting hard black shadows that made her look much older than she was.

“She didn't,” Hannibal said. “A man who is my client discovered him here less than an hour ago and told me and Ms. Kitteridge about it.”

When Thompson turned to him, Hannibal produced his credentials and a card. Thompson stared hard at both, as if they answered his next few questions. When he had worked his way through them he moved on to the questions he still needed answers for.

“Your client's name?”

“Dean Edwards,” Hannibal said. “He's up in Arlington right now.”

Thompson began rocking back and forward from heels to toes. A sign of agitation Hannibal guessed. Now he ignored Joan. Hannibal had the impression this man could only encompass one person at a time.

“He didn't call the police when he found… this?”

“Mister Edwards was upset,” Hannibal said. “This man was his friend. And we weren't sure if he was in fact dead. Mister Edwards has had some problems of an emotional nature.”

Thompson's eyes came up from his pad without his head moving. “I see. Did you know the deceased?”

“Ms. Kitteridge is his employer,” Hannibal said. Then in a lower voice he added “I met him today.”

“All right. Now what about this man Ms. Kitteridge said was here when you arrived?” Thompson had turned a corner in his questions, but Hannibal knew he'd come back to the earlier line. A good cop who knew how to question a witness.

“Tall Caucasian male dressed in dark clothes, and a hell of a fast runner,” Hannibal said. “Escaped in a large dark four door sedan with out of state plates that start with the numbers 902.”

“You couldn't even see the make of the car?”

“It was dark,” Hannibal said, looking down. He knew his guilt must be showing by now.

“How did you come to know the deceased?”

There it was. The lead to the pivotal question. The guilt that was clawing at Hannibal's mind suddenly burst in, and just as suddenly burst out through his mouth. “I was here earlier today. Mister Peters told me he thought his life was in danger. He told me he had received death threats.”

“Really? And what did you do?”

“Nothing,” Hannibal said through clenched teeth. “I didn't believe him. I didn't do a damned thing, all right? I blew it off and just a few hours later I'm standing here and he's…..” It took just that long for Hannibal to regain his grasp on the guilt and shove it back down deep into his gut where it would roil around like a bad piece of meat, but he determined not to let it come spewing out again.

Detective Thompson looked at Hannibal as if he recognized what was happening to him. “When you've had a little time to think this through, then we'll both know this wasn't your fault. I know something of this Edwards and I think he'll be able to tell us more than you might think. In fact he's the obvious suspect, isn't he? We'll know more of course, after we speak to him.”

Joan's voice was an unexpected intrusion. “I don't think you will.” When Thompson turned to her, she said, “Mister Edwards is also in my employ. And right now he's under a doctor's care so I don't think you should be harassing him. Besides, your most obvious suspect is the man we saw running from the scene, don't you think?”

Hannibal had barely set the brake when Joan was out of his car again, headed for the steps up to the garage apartment. Hannibal had to run to keep up with her.

“That was something, you speaking up to that detective like that.”

Joan stopped and turned to him. It had been a long day, and by now her hair was straying from its carefully planned design. Her makeup was wearing away. Her clothes showed the wrinkles of too many hours sitting. Still, he could again see how this woman could run a successful multimillion-dollar high tech company. That was in her eyes, which had not dulled or softened. “Mister Jones, these computer people, they're like children. I lost one of my charges today. I'm not anxious to lose another. Now let's get upstairs before the police arrive and make sure I haven't lied to them. My business influence won't stall them for very long.”

But before they moved further, a short parade emerged from the door. Cindy led the way, followed by Bea who seemed to be supporting Dean by one arm. Even in the darkness his face appeared glazed over. They were followed by an older man wearing a thick gray beard and thicker glasses. Cindy pointed Bea and Dean into the back of a gray BMW in the driveway, then waved the older man forward.

“Hi honey,” Cindy said, barely mustering a smile. “You were gone so long I got worried, so I did what I thought made sense. This is Doctor Quincy Roberts. He was Dean's therapist years ago. He was kind enough to rush down here and once he got a look at his former patient he agreed to have Dean hospitalized.”

“I believe he's a suicide risk,” Doctor Roberts said in a smooth voice. “I've given him a mild sedative, and now I'll drive him and his fiancée up to Charter Behavioral in Rockville, where I've arranged to have him admitted. If nothing else it will keep the police from grilling him for a while. Maybe they can find their killer in the meantime. Believe me, Dean is in no way capable of killing anyone after what he's been through.”

“What he's been through,” Hannibal repeated. “Yes, I've heard. Can we get together tomorrow, Doctor? I'd like to learn more about what he's been through, and what he saw ten years ago.”

Hannibal started his day with a phone call to Anna Ingersoll. By the time he placed that call he was in his office, in his black suit and white shirt, on the clock as he would put it. He figured she would be in her office a few minutes before nine o'clock and he hoped to catch her before the day overwhelmed her. She sounded only a little harried when she answered.

“Anna this is Hannibal. How are you doing?”

“I'm okay,” she said. “I called him last night. We talked for a while. I think he really listened to me, at least at first. Then the anger took over and I…” Hannibal let the silence hang, refused to let her off the hook. Eventually she added, “I hung up on him.”

“Good for you,” he said. It was a powerful indication that she was breaking from his dominance. They would heal their relationship or they would not, but now she was empowered to choose without being bullied in either direction.

“Thank you,” Anna said. “I don't know how I could repay you.” For his help or the encouragement, he could not be sure.

“Actually, I'm calling to ask for your help. I could use your expertise on a case I'm on, trying to find someone. Can you track a man down with a partial license plate?”

Hannibal could feel her smile across the phone lines. She loved the idea that she could be needed by someone. “I can sure as heck narrow your search, depending on how much of the plate you got.”

“All I have is the first three characters,” he said.

“That's not a bad start. Local registration?”

“I guess,” Hannibal said. “It starts with 902.”

“Hmmm….not Virginia. All ours start with three letters, except vanity plates of course. You don't know what state?”

Hannibal cursed away from the phone. “Guess I don't. So we're nowhere, huh?”

“I didn't say that,” Anna said. He could hear she was already being distracted by something at work. “I can help you better when I've got more time at a PC. Can this wait until I can come over tonight?”

“Sure, no big rush,” Hannibal lied. “If you can figure something out this evening, that will be great! I've got plenty to do today anyway, starting with taxi duty for a lady lucky enough to be able to take off from work whenever she feels like it.”

Hannibal regretted his condescending thought about Bea Collins as soon as he pulled up in front of her home. She was dressed as if for work in a tasteful business skirt suit and black heels. Her makeup was carefully applied. Her raven tresses caressed her shoulders in gentle waves. Yet her petite form seemed shrunken in on itself. Her shoulders threatened to buckle under some invisible weight. She was perfectly framed by the backdrop of the day's low, dark clouds.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Bea said as she settled into the car. “I have to be there for him, but I couldn't have gone alone.”