fork down he turned so he could see them both easily.
“All right, you two, I’ve got to get going,” he said, which drew startled looks from both Isaac and Janet. “Janet, before I go, Isaac and I discussed some ground rules and I wanted to get your agreement to them. First, he accepts the separation and will never try to make you go home with him. Right Isaac?” Isaac nodded, and Hannibal continued. “In exchange you agree not to refuse to see him any day he wants to spend some time with you, like today. You pick the place, you say how long, but you agree to see him and talk to him. Okay?”
Janet took a deep breath and bit her lower lip, but nodded her head as well. “Fine. Now I discussed with Isaac the idea that he needs some counseling for his problem of hitting people he loves. He can do that and I think maybe get his problem fixed if you give him some support. What do you say? I mean, is there anything else that makes it unacceptable to live with him as man and wife?”
Janet’s eyes widened like a doe startled by a flashlight at night. “Well, yes, that’s basically it.”
“Well good. You two sit here and work out a plan to do what has to be done. I got the check. Here’s cab fare back to work. Like I said, I have to run. But I’m sure you’ll call me tonight to tell me how it went.”
“Yes, you can bet on that,” Janet said, her face sending overlapping messages of hate and thanks. “But wouldn’t it be better if you stuck around to hear for yourself?”
Hannibal had an answer prepared, but his phone saved him the trouble. Smiling, he pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. The smile dropped from his face instantly and his mind shut out everything but the voice in his ear.
“Calm down Bea. Where are you?”
“The garage apartment,” Bea said through tears Hannibal could almost see through the telephone. “I came to pick up some of Dean’s things and, and, Hannibal they’ve found the murder weapon.”
14
Hannibal’s tires squealed when he reached the driveway. Only pure luck had allowed him to avoid a ticket on his way to the Kitteridge house. He ran through the door and took the steps three at a time until he stood face to face with Stan Thompson in the modest living room. Bea sat on the sofa, alone, still crying.
“Would you mind showing me what you got?” Hannibal asked, fists on hips.
Thompson looked down at him and grimaced. “You know, for someone who has no official standing in this case, you sure do turn up with a lot of questions.”
“Just trying to keep you from embarrassing yourself, chief,” Hannibal said. “Just thought it would be nice to see the supposed murder weapon. I know I have no rights here, just asking.”
“What the hell, over there,” Thompson said with the arrogance of the man who thinks he has all the answers. The weapon lay on the coffee table where anyone in the room could examine it, in a simple ziplock bag. Hannibal squatted beside the table for a closer look.
It was the right tool for the job. A genuine Marine Corps issue Ka-bar fighting knife. Marines started getting them in nineteen forty-two and their popularity never flagged because they were tough knives made for combat. This one was the regulation size, a little less than a foot long, with about six and a half inches of that being the parkerized blade. It retained most of its black coating, except of course for its glittering razor edge. The dark brown stains up under the hand guard were certainly dried blood, and he could guess whose. The handle’s compacted leather discs were stained unevenly dark, from absorbing the sweat from the hand of its owner, he assumed.
“That thing couldn’t be his,” Bea said, her whining reminding Hannibal that she was there. He moved to the couch and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I swear I’ve never seen that knife before,” Bea went on.
“Just try to relax,” Hannibal told her. “This is all circumstantial.”
“Give it up, lady. Your boyfriend’s cooked.” Thompson had moved unnoticed to stand over them, staring down like a judge. Hannibal released Bea and stood slowly, so that he was nose to nose with Thompson. The bigger man took a small step back. Hannibal advanced, keeping his voice low.
“That woman’s suffering right now. Part of the collateral damage that surrounds every murder. There’s no good reason for you to be rough with her. Unless you think she had something to do with Oscar’s death?”
Thompson took Hannibal’s arm and guided him into the bedroom. Hannibal thought for a moment he would get the chance to get physical with the detective but once out of Bea’s sight Thompson dropped his arm and spread his hands wide.
“You’re right,” Thompson said in a harsh whisper. “You’re right and for what it’s worth, I apologize. I know what you’re talking about. I saw what Grant Edwards’ death did to my good friend Ursula Voss.” Something in Thompson’s eyes said that he and Ursula were more than friends.
“She seems, on the surface, to be a pretty tough woman,” Hannibal said. “Wouldn’t think her grief would show.”
“You don’t know,” Thompson said, dropping on to the bedsprings. The mattress stood on edge against the wall, one result of the search, Hannibal assumed. “Cancer took her husband, not three years after the wedding, and she never married again. She had a big hand in raising her little brother and always felt protective toward him.”
Hannibal sat beside Thompson. “Look chief, it’ll kill her if her nephew gets dragged into a murder trial.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Thompson asked. “But what can I do? This is certainly enough to warrant my demanding Dean be taken into custody. I mean, this isn’t just some forensic indication here, it’s almost certainly the murder weapon, hidden in his home.”
“Okay,” Hannibal said, standing. “Where’d you find it?” Thompson pointed at the mattress. A slit had been cut into the middle of it, just about a foot long.
“One of my men turned the mattress over and found that. And when he stuck his hand inside, he pulled out that knife. You can see dried blood on it, up by the hilt.”
“Yeah, and I can name a dozen people who could have put it there since the murder, including me.”
Thompson stood, smiling. “You know I’ve got enough to question him.”
The stale smell of the room seemed worse than before. “If you were at his mother’s trial, then you’ve known Dean Edwards for a long time. You think he’s a killer, chief?”
“Frankly I don’t think he’s got it in him,” Thompson said, staring out the window. “But I think if I sweat him a bit I can get him to give up the real killer.”
Hannibal wandered over next to Thompson, staring down at the same wide, well-kept lawn. “And that would be?”
“His mother. A known killer. I checked. She’s out of prison already.”
“Motive?” Hannibal could see the main house from there and wondered where the Kitteridges were during all this investigating.
“Well there’s plenty of evidence Oscar Peters was gay. And witnesses tell us he and Dean were close. Maybe mama didn’t approve.”
Hannibal watched Langford Kitteridge step out of his house, wearing a jogging suit, and begin a series of slow stretching exercises on the lawn. Then his attention returned to Thompson. “Because the murders look the same, you think maybe they were done by the same person, eh?”
“Let’s just say I’m getting the blood on the knife tested against two different samples,” Thompson admitted.
Hannibal didn’t want to obstruct the investigation, but he sure wanted to protect Dean from being hauled in as a suspect. And maybe, he realized, he could forestall it. He moved off to the living room, followed closely by Thompson. He sat beside Bea, pulled his telephone from his jacket pocket and looked up at Thompson as he dialed.
“You don’t want the cops to pull Dean in just yet, chief. It’ll look like a helpless, emotionally wrecked man being persecuted.”
Hannibal ignored the puzzled looks on Bea’s and Thompson’s faces while he listened to the ringing sound, grateful when the right person answered.
“Hi, this is Hannibal.”
