Damaged Goods (8 page)

“Actually, my current case brought me nearby, and I thought you might like to run out for a late lunch. Or have you eaten, already?”

“Oh heavens no. In fact, I really can't get away today. Do you want me to order something in? We can eat right here while I get some of this research done.”

Not exactly what Hannibal had in mind, but he said, “Sure, that sounds great. If I can use your computer for a minute.”

“Help yourself,” Cindy said, rolling her chair a little out from her desk. Hannibal pushed the visitor chair over beside her and tapped the keys while she spoke into her intercom. The two quickly became immersed in their own tasks and sat in a comfortable silence until a young lady who may have been hired for her cuteness laid food on Cindy's desk and withdrew without a word. Cindy put her notebook down and corralled her soup and salad. Hannibal leaned back and began unwrapping his hot pastrami on rye.

“Well, this is kind of cozy,” Cindy said. “So tell me how this new case is starting out. Missing person, right?”

“Well, sort of,” Hannibal said after his first bite. The meat was hot and fresh, with a generous slathering of sharp, stone-ground mustard. Perfect. He sipped from his lemonade to clear his mouth. “The guy apparently stole something from a young girl he was staying with. I found out he had a suite at the Capital Hilton over on 16th Street right after he left the girl.”

“What did he steal?” Cindy asked. “That's one of the most expensive places in the City. Certainly the most expensive of the Hiltons.”

“Well that's just it,” Hannibal said, tracking mustard down his thumb with his tongue. “We don't know what he stole, but it does sound like he's already sold it, doesn't it? Anyway, he was only at the Hilton for a week. I think he found a new mark pretty quickly.”

“Okay, so you got a forwarding address, right?”

“You could be a detective,” Hannibal said. “Actually, he left both a previous and a forwarding address, one in Denver, the other in Miami. But as I just confirmed with on-line mapping services, neither address actually exists.”

“Okay, so he's somebody who's used to keeping a low profile. Where do you go from here?”

“From here I go back to the victim for more background info. But enough about my day. How's that DPO going?”

“Spectacular,” Cindy said, pushing her fork around to gather the last of the dressing from her salad bowl. “I was just putting together a presentation for some new potential investors.”

“I thought this was a great investment. Do you have to sell it?”

Cindy shook her head, still smiling. “My poor investment-ignorant Hannibal. One of the biggest problems with DPOs is the lack of a secondary market to trade these securities in. I mean, unlike shares of say, TRW or IBM that change hands by the millions every day on the New York Stock Exchange, the stock of DPO companies is kind of illiquid.”

“Meaning it's hard to sell,” Hannibal said.

“Well, yeah. There are sales restrictions, and they're not on an exchange so, yeah, we have to sell them.” She stood, smoothed her skirt, and leaned over for another kiss. “You know, lunch was nice, but I owe you a real, home cooked meal. I'm thinking pollo con quimbobó y platanos with some black beans and rice.”

“Okay, pollo is chicken, right?” Hannibal stared into her eyes with both hands on her waist, gently tugging, trying to drop her onto his lap. “That does sound good. Tonight around eight? That would give me time to straighten up.”

Her eyes broke from his as conflict flashed across her face. “I've got a lot to do here, baby. Not sure how I can swing it tonight.”

“Yes, I know, you're ever so busy. But tell me this: when will be a better time? When will you not be busy?”

At the gentle urging of Hannibal's hands on her waist, Cindy lowered herself onto his knees, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and brushing his nose with her own.

“Yeah, I guess you're right. Okay. Dinner tonight, at your place. My man comes first.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Hannibal said in a very soft voice, “and maybe I'll have a little surprise for you then. Of course, if something comes up…”

“No, I absolutely promise.” Cindy's mouth pouted and she batted her seductive eyelashes. “I would never want to disappoint my honey. If I don't come through…”

“If you don't then you get a spanking,” Hannibal said, wagging a finger at her.

“Oh?” Cindy said, turning her face to look at him out of the corner of her eyes. “Do YOU promise?”

It was close to three o'clock when Hannibal again parked in front of Anita's home. He noticed that her lawn was turning brown, partially from being cut too short. Sometimes a person can pay too much attention to some jobs and do more harm than good. He imagined this girl polishing the finish off furniture too, or destroying clothes by washing them too often.

Anita opened the door before he could ring the bell. “It's good to see you again,” she said. “Have you solved it all so quickly? Found Rod and brought back whatever he took away?”

“Not quite.” Hannibal stepped into her sterile front room. “Thank you for meeting me here. I'm glad your schedule is so flexible.”

“Oh, I have a full day's work but I always start early and finish early,” Anita said with evident pride. “So please, have a seat and tell me what you've learned. Coffee?”

Hannibal continued to stand at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. “Sure, coffee's fine. I wanted to tell you where we are with the investigation. First of all, your friend Rod will not be easy to find. He's covering his tracks pretty well, using false addresses and so forth. So I've decided to approach this from two different directions. First, I'm afraid I'll need to question this LaPage woman. You said you saw Rod coming out of her house.”

He watched Anita nod as she fussed about the kitchen. She was dumping out the coffee she had brewed for herself, making him a fresh pot. “Mr. Blair might not like that.
They're neighbors and I think they belong to some of the same associations and such.”

“I'll check with him,” Hannibal said. “The other best chance is to figure out what your father left here that anyone would want to steal. He must have told Rod about his treasure. People get lonely in prison, and sometimes that makes them talkative. Maybe he really did expect the man to come here and protect you. In any case, I think it must have been something he took away from work, maybe insider trading information or pharmaceutical trade secrets.”

“I don't think Daddy would do anything like that,” Anita said as she poured freshly filtered water into the back of her coffee maker.

“Even so, I think I need to talk to some of the people he worked with.”

Anita paused for a moment in the middle of measuring scoops of coffee. “I'm afraid I don't know any of the people Daddy worked with.”

“I see. Well, I might find some leads in his office, if I can poke around in there a little more.”

“Of course,” Anita said. “Whatever might help. Say, I've got some corn muffins here. Why don't you go ahead to the study and when everything's ready I'll bring a tray down to you.”

Walking down the carpeted steps to the office, Hannibal was shaking his head, silently admitting that Anita's subservient attitude was starting to irritate him. But then, if the girl had shown a bit more backbone, this Rod would never have been able to take advantage of her as he did. Hannibal always thought all women raised by men would be more like Cindy, who spent her formative years with just her father. Perhaps Anita was looking for a replacement for her lost father when Rod appeared on the scene. If so, he must have enjoyed being taken care of and catered to in a way Hannibal never would.

While one part of his mind toyed with that personality puzzle, the rest of it explored the office, searching for some evidence that Anita's father had connections with anyone else
at Isermann -Börner. Nothing on the desk or any of its cubbyholes yielded a clue. He leafed quickly through the books on the dust-free shelves. It didn't take long to ascertain that Mr. Cooper never made personal references.

Letters? Memos? Hannibal turned his attention to the gray metal filing cabinet in the corner. He yanked at the handle. Locked. Well, that was a good sign. Maybe there was something inside worth hiding. Not wanting to wait for Anita, Hannibal drew a small plastic kit from an inside jacket pocket. The case was about the size of a credit card and no thicker than a computer floppy disc. From it he drew two slender bits of spring steel. He slid the metal slivers into the filing cabinet's lock and five seconds later, pulled the top drawer open.

The file folders were all neatly labeled, and most of the labels meant nothing to Hannibal. Chemical compounds, he guessed, or abbreviations for them, except for the folder at the very back whose label read, “rules.” Curiosity drew his hand toward it, then past it. In the dark in the back of the drawer a sparkle had caught his eye. It was the glint of metal on what appeared to be a leather strap.

Hannibal pulled the unexpected object from the drawer. A dog's collar, he thought, but for a good sized animal. It was a simple black leather strap about fourteen or fifteen inches long, with a square silver buckle. Odd that the collar would be locked in a file cabinet, he thought, and stranger still that he had seen no evidence of a dog or even a cat in the house. He had seen no food, water bowl, pet toys, or any of the usual telltale signs.

The collar made him curious, but didn't seem relevant to his investigation. Idly, he pulled the “rules” folder out with his free hand, dropped it on top of the filing cabinet, and flipped it open. It appeared to contain only five or six sheets of paper, with several lines handwritten in a very fine and precise script, with gold ink. Not a man's hand, more likely Anita's. The hair on the back of Hannibal's neck rose to attention as he scanned the first few numbered lines.

#1. I worship my Master.

#2. I worship my Master's body.

#3. I will serve, obey and please my Master.

The numbers went up to ninety, but that was enough for him. Hannibal flipped the folder closed and just managed to get it back where he found it when he heard a gasp behind him, followed by another sound, like a partial sob. He turned to see Anita, her mouth open and her face flushed bright crimson. Her eyes darted left and right, as if she would run off if not for the tray she was holding. The tray held a coffee pot, cup, sugar and creamer set, and a plate of muffins. After a moment of paralysis, she appeared to buckle at the knees. Hannibal moved to help her, but she carefully placed the tray onto a chair and knelt in front of it, facing down at the tray as if the empty cup was endlessly fascinating. Hannibal suddenly felt like an intruder. He also felt very slow, having not realized at first that the object in his hand was a symbol of shame for the woman he was trying to help.

“This is yours,” he said slowly, before realizing how pointless that comment was.

Anita squeezed her knees with her hands, and nodded her head.

Hannibal was treading into unfamiliar waters, but some things seemed to string together. “Rod?”

Her head moved up and down again, and he saw a tear drop to her skirt.

“Please,” he said aloud, “please stand up.” In his mind he was screaming, “For God's sake, get off your knees.”

Anita rose and turned to face him with unexpected grace. She seemed to be staring at his navel, but for the firs time Hannibal wondered if her downcast gaze was the result of shame or training. He let the silence hang, quite sure that she knew the questions that needed answers. When at last she spoke it was in a voice so well controlled that it surprised him.

“When Rod got here my life had no direction, no purpose. I had dedicated much of my life to my father, and he to me. When he died I had nothing. No one. Life just happened to me. It was all spinning out of control. Rod, he explained my
purpose, gave me a role in life. Mostly he was good to me. Gave me direction and trained me.”

“Trained you?” Hannibal's stomach twisted tight, like a knotted dishrag. “To do what, to be his servant, his slave?”

Silent tears began to slide down Anita's face. “I needed guidance. He showed me how to behave and what to do.”

The water on Hannibal's skin wasn't tears, but sweat, sending a chill up his spine. “Did he,” no easy way to ask, he decided. “Did he beat you?”

“He didn't want to,” she said. “Only when I made him do it. Only when I was bad. Or if I wasn't learning.”

Hannibal suddenly remembered the collar in his hand, black leather that matched his glove. He dropped it on the filing cabinet. “Learning what, I wonder,” he said, mostly to himself.

Anita's tears flowed more freely and she gave a soft sob before answering this time. “He made me do things. Things I never did before. But it made him happy for me to do these things and I needed to learn the joy of making him happy.”