Damaged Goods (15 page)

Hannibal took another long sip from his tea. It was very sweet and so cold it hurt his teeth. “What happened to the girl?”

Marquita looked up. “You don't really understand how it works, do you? He ordered her to her knees and she knelt. He ordered her to put her face on the cold hardwood floor. She screamed that she was sorry and begged him to forgive her. She was already crying when he pulled off his belt. I didn't stay around to watch.”

Marquita probably didn't even notice that she was crying too, but Sarge did. Silent tears left tracks down her fast-drying cheeks, and she seems oblivious to the others. Sarge used a finger to wipe the water from one side of her face. Hannibal stood slowly, eased down the steps to the patio, and began to wander into the yard. When he felt the pressure easing around his chest, he noticed that he was followed.

“It's hard for you to hear, isn't it?” Cindy asked, just as they reached the tree line of the narrow wooded area separating them from the next yard.

“Last night,” Hannibal said.

“Not even!” Cindy said, turning him to face her.

“I seen it when I was little,” Hannibal said. “Soldiers who thought their foreign born wives were just kids or slaves or something. And now this guy. I just don't want to be him.”

“You could never be him.”

“Last night,” Hannibal repeated.

Cindy's laugh was one sharp snort. “Well hell, if you're going to be extreme about this, then it's your whole race.”

Hannibal's eyes widened. “You mean blacks?”

“I mean men. Every man is him in some small way. It's just a matter of degree.”

Hannibal stepped forward onto last year's dry leaves beneath the verdant canopy. “Maybe. I know I've seen Sarge mean. But now I see him gentle as a lamb with Marquita. How do you figure them coming together, huh? Kind of like a fairy tale. The bouncer and the princess.”

“Maybe they're just destined to be together,” Cindy said, following her man into the thin shade. “Don't you believe in fate?”

“You mean like kismet? Destiny? What will be will be?” Hannibal thought for a moment. “I believe if I step into empty space I'm destined to fall. I think it's pretty much up to me whether or not I take that step.”

“Really? Well, master of your own fate, what's your next step to finding this Rod character?”

Hannibal turned away, hands on hips, head shaking. “I've got to find out if Anita lost a disc with something valuable on it. Was her dad stealing formulas from Isermann –Börner? And I've got to find those guys he worked with. Such pretentious names. Brendon Hathaway. Elliot Gaye.”

“Elliot Gaye, the combinatorial chemist?”

“What?” Hannibal spun to stare at Cindy, her face mottled by the splotchy shadows of leaves above them.

“Well, you mentioned Isermann –Börner a minute ago. Gaye works for them.”

“A client?”

“Not really, but an influential social contact. He'll be at that fundraiser tonight. It's one of those things that, if you're in certain industries, you don't dare miss it.”

“You're going to be there,” Hannibal said.

“Yep, and if you're real nice to me, you could be too.” Hannibal smiled for a second, but then the smile sort of slid off his face. “Hey,” Cindy said, “I know it's not your kind of thing, but…”

“It's not that. It's just that, you know, it's too easy.”

“What's that mean?”

“You know me. I don't believe in coincidences.”

“Yeah I know,” Cindy said, her eyes sparkling. “Doesn't stop them from happening though, does it?”

With much reluctance, Hannibal handed the White Tornado's keys to a boy displaying too much acne and attitude, and headed into the hotel. The Omni Shoreham was a huge, imposing structure, hogging eleven lovingly landscaped acres of Rock Creek Park in Northwest Washington. Since the 1930's the Omni has hosted countless celebrities, several presidents and other world leaders. It was no place Hannibal was ever likely to spend a night, but it was a regular choice for these events people referred to as galas. Tonight's gala, a Gourmet Gala to be precise, would benefit St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital. Hannibal was certain a lot of people were there out of a pure love of children. The fact that every noted pharmaceutical company was represented he attributed to enlightened self-interest on the part of researchers who were showing both support and deference to what they hoped would be a major customer.

Cindy naturally wore a well-fitted black gown with a single string of pearls and a different pair of black heels high enough to show her legs at their best. They had compromised on Hannibal's appearance without much debate. Cindy had agreed to his wearing a simple black suit, although she did give him a Structure tie with a nice subtle design. Hannibal had agreed to go without his usual protective camouflage. No gloves and, more significantly, no sunglasses. It was a concession because he didn't like to show strangers his eyes.
He also didn't like to think about what his eyes probably told people about him.

“What did you call this guy? Some kind of chemist?”

“Combinatorial,” Cindy said, handing her wrap to a coat check girl. “Combinatorial chemistry is an integral part of drug discovery, dear. Speeds up research and development, so useful compounds get developed more quickly and less expensively. Gaye was one of the combinatorial chemists who contributed to the completion of sequencing human genes.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes. “Check out the big brain on Cindy tonight.”

She held her arm out for him to take. “I memorized that bit when I was working a very small IPO for one of Isermann – Börner's baby competitors.”

They sped through the lobby, their heels clicking across the marble as they passed between arched columns and beneath huge cut-glass chandeliers. The hotel was labyrinthine, boasting a couple of dozen ballrooms and meeting rooms, but Cindy steered them without confident certainty toward the gala's reception. The instant they transitioned to the carpet of the ballroom a blonde Amazon spotted them. She was about four-fifths legs, and her black strapless gown was designed to make that conclusion unavoidable. Her lips were a little too full for a white girl and covered with a lipstick that made Hannibal think of candy apples. She stalked toward them wearing a broad smile, her eyes scanning Hannibal like the light beam of a Xerox machine. Was she memorizing him for later examination?

“Cindy,” the woman said, putting an arm around Cindy's waist and kissing the air beside her right cheek. “I am so glad you decided to come. Now the real fun can begin.”

“Hi Glory. Hannibal, this is Gloria Deitz. International law. One of my best girlfriends at the firm. Glory, hon, I'd like you to meet Hannibal Jones.”

“Oh my God, Cindy, I can't believe you've been keeping this gorgeous man under wraps all this time,” Glory said, gushing like a schoolgirl as they moved toward the bar. “And
you never said about his eyes. What a simply luscious shade of blue. Or wait, now they're looking green. Yummy.”

Hannibal had counted to ten in his head three separate times before parting his artificial smile to ask “Would you ladies like a drink?”

“Oh, be a dear and get me an appletini,” Cindy said. Her eyes promised him a reward for this evening, and his eyes accepted.

“Vodka rocks,” Glory said. As Hannibal turned to the bar he heard her chattering on to Cindy. “You are so lucky. Now, what do you call him?”

“Hannibal?”

“Well yes, but I've never heard you call him anything else. He must have a nickname or something.”

“No, just Hannibal,” Cindy said.

“Wow. Doesn't it make you think of that cannibal character in the movies?”

Hannibal collected the girls' drinks from a smiling bartender and quickly handed them off. He tried to pretend that he and Cindy were the only people there, hoping her girlfriend would take the hint.

“Cindy, do you see any signs of that guy I wanted to meet this evening?”

“I haven't seen Elliot yet, hon. But I do see the right crowd of pharmacists and techies.” She nodded to Gloria and gave her a sly wink. “Glory, we're going to wander over in this direction and shake a few hands.”

“I got ya,” the blonde replied in conspiratorial tones. “Gotta network, gotta work the room. That's what makes you the best, Cindy. I'll catch you on the bounce back.”

Hannibal felt out of place walking around empty handed, so on their way across the polished marble floor he stopped at one of the many bar setups for a drink. Only women carried wine at these events, so he asked for an acceptable substitute.

“Scotch, rocks” he said to a large Black bartender. The man seemed to lean forward, as if his response was for their ears alone.

“Single malt or double, sir?” Hm. Regular or high test? Was the bartender trying to embarrass him, or school him?

“Oh, um, single malt?”

“Yes sir,” the bartender was pleased. “Laphroaig okay?”

“Oh, sure. Of course.”

“Very good sir,” The bartender poured with practiced ease and handed over the glass in such a way that Hannibal had to lean in to get it.

“Good stuff,” the waiter said. “Next time, ask for it by name.”

“Thanks, brother.”

Walking through the throng of political and business movers and shakers, Hannibal wondered how there could be any poverty in Washington. Charity balls were more popular than Wizards games, and the price of admission was obscene. But the little circle of men they sidled up to now seemed less well off than some they passed. These were rented tuxedos and Mall store shoes like he himself wore. He didn't doubt their importance, but it seemed clear that these cocktail sippers actually worked for a living. Cindy seemed to consider the little circle before breaking in, singling out a particular balding, round-faced man and signaling with her chin that he was their quarry. Then she hovered innocently, waiting to catch the fellow's eye. When he turned to her, she turned on the charm.

“Cindy Santiago,” the man said, raising his Manhattan toward her. “What a pleasure to see you this evening. Gentlemen, this is the young lady who helped me straighten out that awful patent office mess last year.”

The other men all seemed to know what a mess that was, and murmured their approval toward her. Then Cindy said, “Good to see you Elliot. I'd like you to meet Hannibal Jones, the fellow I told you about who solves other sorts of problems.”

Elliot's mouth opened with his smile now, and he beamed at Hannibal the way he might at a professional athlete or perhaps a rock star. “Yes, the troubleshooter I've heard about. Well, what a life that must be. A good deal more exciting
than branching nucleotides I'm quite sure.” The others all seemed to agree, and Elliot wasted no time in introduced Hannibal around the little circle.

“So you're a real life P.I., eh?” a particularly thin fellow holding a pink drink said. “Sort of like Sam Spade. Get it?” Even without the emphasis on the last name, Hannibal managed to get it. He just didn't manage to smile. Instead he sipped his Scotch, an act that improved his mood right away. It was smooth and far smokier than any he had tried before. He smiled at the skinny guy, which seemed to surprise everyone.

“You're gracious, considering what a putz Franklin is being,” Elliot said. He had the small, delicate hands Hannibal associated with scientists for some reason.

“Hey, it's not like it's the first time I've heard that,” Hannibal said. “And actually, the job's not much like it looks in those movies.”

“From what I've heard, a private eye is just a professional tough guy,” another drinker threw in. “More like Shaft, right?”

Hannibal thought he was turning to Cindy, but she had wandered off and left him to deal with these gawkers alone. Not wanting to respond to the last remark, he looked up at Elliot, who seemed to sense his discomfort.

“No no. I'll bet he's more like Ellery Queen. You know, a thinking man's detective.”

The last thing Hannibal wanted to discuss at a charity gala was his profession. While he was trying to think up a new subject to introduce, Franklin spoke up again.

“Well, what do you think, Jones? Which archetype detective are you?”

Hannibal closed his eyes and tipped his head back, emptying his glass before speaking. “Actually, I think I'm more like the illegitimate child of Spenser and Hawk. That is, if it was possible for them to, you know, do that kind of thing.” Then he pointed his head toward the nearest bartender. “As it happens, Elliot, I could use your help with a case I'm working on. Let's refresh our drinks.”

They headed toward the bar but through further head signals Hannibal guided Elliot Gaye to the door and out into the hallway. Gaye took a deep breath as soon as the door hissed closed behind them.

“Sorry about the attack of the geek patrol. Every one of those fellows is a genius, but their social skills are somewhat lacking. I understand why you'd want to get away.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “That's kind of harsh. I mean, I hated it, but they're just curious kids, and I know I've made fun of their kind often enough.”

“Humph. I've got to admit you're not what I expected at all,” Gaye said.

“And that wasn't a dodge back there,” Hannibal said. “I really do need your help on a case.”

“Really?” Gaye began to wander down the hall, and Hannibal stayed at his side. Despite himself, he seemed to Hannibal to be one of the kids, in awe of real life. “How can I help?”

“Well, I'm involved in an investigation involving the death of Vernon Cooper. Do you remember him?”

“Vernon was in prison when he passed, right?” Gaye asked. Then he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did he die under suspicious circumstances?”