Collateral Damage (9 page)

“Bea Collins cares about you. She doesn't know why you walked out of her life without warning. Bea is a good woman and, in my estimation, deserves better. Now, I don't have any evidence of you having committed any crimes at this time…”

“Crimes?”

Hannibal rounded the table and zoomed in on Dean like a telescopic rifle site. “I stopped digging but I can pick that shovel back up again. Right now, that's not my job. So here are your choices. You can disappear again, abandon your lucrative job and the life you've got started here and start over someplace else. Or, you can do the right thing.”

Dean had trouble keeping his eyes on Hannibal's through the sunglasses. In fact, he glanced around nervously looking at everything but Hannibal. “The right thing. And you think you know what the right thing is, is that it? I won't go back to her Mister Jones.”

“Lucky for her,” Hannibal said, standing over Dean as if he were on the witness stand in a courtroom drama. “But you need to meet with Bea and give her some sort of explanation for disappearing. You might even consider the truth.”

Hannibal pressed ahead, even as all his instincts were shouting this was wrong. Dean Edwards was soft in the middle, no hidden core. This man didn't have what it took to run a confidence game. He barely had the confidence to run his own life. His hands were locked together, his thumbs
rubbing each other nervously. Yet he had the strength to stick to his intentions this time.

“You don't understand. I care about Bea. Very much. But I had to go. I won't get her involved in. in my life.” Then Dean stared at the platter sized triangular device at the center of the table. Hannibal glanced at it as well, realizing belatedly that it was a microphone of some type, designed to pick up comments from around the room. Good for meetings. Bad for confidentiality. And it occurred to Hannibal that whatever Dean's problem was, it could have something to do with his work. And it could catch up to Bea whether he wanted it to or not. He nodded his understanding to Dean, slipped him one of his cards, and backed off a bit.

“Why don't I pick you up from work tonight and we can work out the details. Five o'clock okay?”

Dean nodded and Hannibal turned to leave. He figured he could open Dean up more later, possibly in Bea's presence. He planned to take some time to slowly explain what he learned today and all it might imply. But as he stepped out of the room Oscar took his arm.

“Ms. Kitteridge would like a word with you,” Oscar said, steering Hannibal toward the corner office. “She says it's pretty important.”

Joan Kitteridge's three-sided desk was a cockpit pinning her against the wall. Between her computer keyboard and monitor, her intercom, television remote control, her mouse, her joystick, her surge protector lined with lighted switches and a control panel for her peripherals, it looked as if she could control the planet from her seat.

Oscar had stopped at the door. Mark Norton waved Hannibal in and toward the leather sofa along the far wall, below the windows. Hannibal lowered himself slowly onto it. Mark stood at the door, not as relaxed as he was trying to appear. Joan leaned forward, hooking titian locks out of her eye with a thumb as she spoke.

“Mister Jones, I'll come to the point. Dean Edwards is a valued employee here. Talented and hard working. It appears he's in some sort of trouble, and I want to know if you're part of it. If you represent a problem that can be solved with money, we may be able to help make it go away.”

Hannibal looked hard at the Chief Executive Officer of Kitteridge Computer Systems. Behind her husky voice, this woman was a world away from Dean Edwards. Layer behind layer, like a steel-skinned onion. The kind of woman who could run a multimillion-dollar company.

“Let me make a few things clear,” Hannibal said. “First, I'm not here to cause trouble. I was asked to find Mister Edwards and I have. And I have no intention of trying to make him do anything he doesn't want to do. But I think he may have made a bad mistake and I could help him correct it. Now, what makes you think he's in trouble?”

While Hannibal spoke, Joan sat still as a wax figure, absorbing his words. Mark didn't watch Hannibal. His eyes were drawn to his boss' magnetism. He fidgeted a bit.

When Hannibal finished, Joan sat for another ten seconds, then said, “I see.” She stood to lean toward him, unwilling to leave the enclosure of her control center. “I think it was pretty obvious to all of us who know him, that Dean was scared when he came in to work this morning. Scared of something. From what I've seen, it doesn't seem to be you. But when I questioned him, he wouldn't tell me anything. I worry about my people, Mister Jones.”

“Isn't that a little maternal?”

“Some of these people need a little looking after,” she answered, not smiling at all. “They don't live much in this world where you and I function, Mister Jones. That's why they're so good at dealing with the imaginary universe they're in.”

Hannibal was contemplating these people who needed Joan Kitteridge's looking after on his way out. One of them intercepted Hannibal in the reception area and followed him out to the elevators. It was Oscar Peters, who trailed behind Hannibal like a fearful puppy, afraid to get too close for fear that Hannibal might decide to kick him.

“I'm just heading for lunch,” Oscar said, stepping into the elevator car with Hannibal and moving to the farthest corner. “I live right by here and just usually go home to eat. Why don't you join me? I think we should talk.”

“What about?”

“Well, Dean and I have become pretty good friends,” Oscar said, pushing his glasses up. “I might be able to help you help him.”

“I imagine I'll find out all I need to know when I pick him up after work tonight,” Hannibal said.

The doors slid back and the two men stepped out into the building's marble lobby. “Tonight?” Oscar asked. “I don't think so, pizo. Dean left work for the day right after that meeting with you.”

Oscar Peters lived in an antique house a couple of blocks off Route 7 back toward Alexandria. Its entrance was defended by a stone porch, but to stand on it one had to climb a set of rotting wooden steps. The house's small wallpapered living room retained its original hardwood floors, left over from a time when someone boasted about owning the place.
An archway led to a formal dining room where Hannibal sat while Oscar heated clam chowder and fried grilled cheese sandwiches on the gas stove. The cooking aromas barely overpowered the lilac air freshener. He delivered the food to the table without a touch of embarrassment. Hannibal pulled off his gloves to eat, but chose to leave his sunglasses on, even in the dim house.

“I used to date Joan Kitteridge you know,” Oscar said, biting into his sandwich. Hannibal wondered if it was true. This was clearly a lonely man, and lonely people will often say whatever they think will hold another person's attention.

“So how did you and Dean become friends? He been here long?”

Oscar nodded, accepting Hannibal's question as the price of keeping him interested. “Dean turned up about six months ago I guess. Not long after I joined the company. He crashed here a couple of times in those days. He and I became, well, close.”

“Really?” Hannibal said, wiping his hands on the napkin Oscar offered. “And when he stopped crashing here? Did he start crashing at Kitteridge's right after that?”

Oscar looked surprised to find anyone knew that. “Um, yeah I guess so. She kind of took a liking to him.”

Hannibal considered what Joan had told him. “Oscar, what is Dean so afraid of?”

Oscar's eyes flashed up at Hannibal, his smile twitching. “Dean? Don't know what he might be scared of. Never know what's going on with that guy.”

“What about you?” Hannibal laced his fingers on the table, keeping his face open. “Seen anything around that company that might make employees nervous? Or something about Joan Kitteridge?”

“Well, I see everything that goes on up there,” Oscar said, “but I have to get back to work pretty soon. I'd be happy to give you all the dirty little details later.” His nervous little hand moved out to cover Hannibal's. “You could stay all night.”

Hannibal felt his stomach jump as his body clenched. He pulled his hand away as if burned and jumped to his feet.

“I think I've got enough.”

But as Hannibal marched toward the door, Oscar spun in his chair, his eyes widening behind his thick lenses. “I'm sorry. Please don't run off. I'm the one who's scared. Don't leave me alone here.”

Hannibal opened the door and stood with his hand on the outside knob. “Just what are you afraid of?”

“I'm afraid for my life,” Oscar said, his voice begging. “My life has been threatened. There's trouble on my tail, followed me all the way from Europe.”

“Sounds like a job for the police,” Hannibal said, pulling his gloves back on.

“The police never believe you until it's too late,” Oscar said. “If you're helping Dean you should be helping me.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “I can pay you.”

“I don't think so,” Hannibal said, harder than he intended. “I've already got two clients. Look, after I talk to Dean, I'll check back with you on that.”

Hannibal was in his car before he realized that Oscar had not followed. He sat still for a moment, breathing deeply. He didn't like to think of himself as phobic. He didn't like to think he was afraid of anything, there were just some things he didn't like. Like men touching him. Besides, that could have been a genuine cry for help Oscar was sounding. If Oscar was in trouble, it could lead to an explanation for Dean's running off.

Or it could have simply been the cry of loneliness, Hannibal decided as he started his car. And besides, he had done what he was being paid to do. He had found Dean Edwards. He jabbed at the buttons on his car phone while he steered himself back to Route 7 pointed toward Alexandria. After five rings, Cindy's hello pushed into the car, effortlessly blowing away the cloud that had filled his mind a moment earlier.

“Hey baby,” Hannibal said. “What you doing for dinner?”

“I'm making it,” she said. He could feel her smile through the ether. “Right now I'm standing in your kitchen, holding the phone with my shoulder, cooking the chicken for my arroz imperial. You feel like chicken and rice?”

“Let's see how many speed laws I can break between here and there,” Hannibal said. “Then you'll see.”

“You done with business for the day?”

“Almost,” Hannibal said. “One more phone call to make. Believe it or not, I found Dean Edwards. He ducked out, and he thinks I don't know where he is, but I do. I think I'll just give Bea the boy's location and let her go confront him herself.”

Hannibal loved all types of food except, perhaps, that group of dishes traditionally referred to as American. And he loved to have a woman cook for him. When Cindy carried the large serving dish from the oven to the table, the smile she wore told him she knew how close to heaven she had carried him.

Cindy was not domestic by nature. This tough-minded woman felt more at home in a courtroom than a kitchen. But every once in a while, she felt the need to release her creative side, and her preferred medium for artistic expression was the traditional dishes of her father's homeland. And Hannibal appreciated the hours invested in this art. Tonight's feature creation required hours of preparation, but the imperial rice was worth the effort. Hannibal had dropped his jacket, gloves and glasses, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to dig in.

“So did you tell Bea everything you learned about her man?” Cindy asked as she settled into her chair facing Hannibal.

Smile-inducing aromas were swimming around Hannibal's flat: onions, garlic, peppers, scallions. Those warm homey aromas made him too happy and relaxed to want to talk business. “Well no, not everything babe. Why set her up for that kind of pain? I did my job. I found him. End of the trail. From there, it's between them.”