Then Hannibal’s brow knit and he returned quickly to the airline ticket stubs. Not one to Germany. London was the closest he got. All over the world, but not one visit to his parents. He had been kept away by a feud that, according to his mother, started when he was in high school, almost fifteen years ago. And now, she would have to be told her Oscar died without reconciling with his father. Just as Hannibal’s father died, a continent away, with no warning, no final hug, no good-bye.
The stairs seemed so much longer on the way down. Cool fresh air washed his face when he opened the door, and Joan turned to him. Her expression was both hopeful and expectant. He had nothing to offer her except an address he had written on his note pad.
“Oscar’s parents. You’ll want to notify them.”
“Yes, of course,” Joan said, accepting the slip of paper as if it was much heavier than it appeared. Then they both turned to face the street and stood side by side in the gathering silence. After a few moments the silence became as heavy as that slip of paper. Joan wrapped her arms around her designer jacket.
“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 cliche, 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 Hannibal’s car. 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 gave a dull nod in response to 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, Hannibal figured he would 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 mentioned in her phone call who was here when you arrived?” Thompson had turned a corner in his questions, but Hannibal knew he’d come back to the earlier line. He was 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 churn and gurgle 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’ve got a feeling 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
