7
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 frightened 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 couldn’t quite overpower the lilac air freshener. Oscar 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. The loneliness of this man’s life was obvious, and lonely people would often say whatever they thought would 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, taking deep, calming breaths. 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, 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.”
8
Hannibal loved all types of food except, perhaps, that group of dishes most people refer 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.
Hannibal knew that Cindy was not domestic by nature. His tough-minded woman felt more at home in a courtroom than a kitchen. But every once in a while, she seemed to feel 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.”
“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
