“Hannibal? Hannibal Jones?” Kate Andrews asked.
“How many Hannibals do you know?”
The pleasant voice at the other end changed, and Hannibal could imagine her eyes narrowing. “What’s up? You got something for me? Something bankable before the 6 o’clock cast?”
“I keep my promises, Kate,” Hannibal said. “This case is about to become news, and you’ve got it exclusively if you move. Remember where we went together last night?”
Hannibal could hear Kate shuffling papers, perhaps taking hasty notes. “Sure, Dean
Edwards’ place. Is there a serious development?”
“I’m there now. I’m looking at Dean’s fiancee, the investigating detective on the case and what is almost certainly the murder weapon. But your story is that Dean is under a psychiatrist’s care, hospitalized, and the police want to drag him downtown. Bea can give you all the details and if you hurry, the police are still searching the place. Lots of nice B-roll of cops dusting and searching and…”
“Jones, I owe you a big kiss! Be there in twenty minutes!” In this case, Hannibal understood being hung up on without so much as a good-bye. A glance at Bea told him she understood what was happening. One look at Thompson’s face told Hannibal that he did not.
“Were you just talking to the press?”
“That’s right,” Hannibal said. “Have a good rundown of the case ready when they get here. Bea’s going to tell them all about Dean’s condition and how unfair it would be to haul him out of the hospital.”
“Under these circumstances,” Thompson said, as if already speaking to a reporter, “taking him into custody will be out of the question until we’ve definitely confirmed that this is the murder weapon.”
“Buys me a little time,” Hannibal said, moving for the door, “so I better make the most of it.”
Hannibal was down the stairs before anyone had a chance to ask more questions, jogging lightly to the main house. He pulled up in front of Langford Kitteridge who stood touching his forehead to his knees. When he straightened his tall slim form he smiled a greeting at Hannibal, then became more serious as his eyes strayed to the garage.
“Nasty business over there,” Langford said. “They tried to keep me out of it but it’s my property, you know. Joanie told me all about it. Nasty business.”
“Yes,” Hannibal agreed, noting the impatience in Langford’s hopping from one foot to another. “I’m surprised she’s letting them tear around in that place without her here.”
“Oh, Joanie’s out of town,” Langford said, beginning to swing his arms and twist from side to side. “Big trade show. Had to leave last night.”
“Really? Rather sudden decision, eh?”
“Oh, no,” Langford said. “This thing was planned months ago. She’s a featured speaker I think. But I am surprised she didn’t cancel. I mean, I thought she really liked that Oscar. Dated a couple of times I believe. But sometimes, she’s a little too much business first, if you know what I mean. And for the computer industry, the shows in Las Vegas are critical.”
“Las Vegas?” Hannibal repeated. “Yes I think I do know what you mean. And I think I’ll stop by her office and see just what was so important about this trip that a murdered friend didn’t make her change her plans.”
15
The same thoughts cycled and recycled through Hannibal’s mind during the drive to Kitteridge Computer Systems and all the way up in the elevator. Considering the degree of responsibility Joan showed toward her employees, how could she fly across the country the day after one of them was murdered and another was about to be accused of that murder? And what of the Nevada license plate on the fugitive’s car? Hannibal didn’t believe in coincidences.
Mark tried to make Hannibal feel welcome in his office, but he was clearly distracted. While Hannibal watched, he labored to put stacks of paper in some sort of order.
“Yes, Mister Jones, the software expo this week is one of most important events of the year in our industry. It would have been very bad for our business if Joan wasn’t there. In fact, I believe she’s giving a talk.”
Hannibal wondered briefly how this guy found his way into the computer business instead of standing on runways in Tommy Hilfiger’s latest gear. “I see. You say this thing goes on all week. Any way I can get in touch with her?”
“I can give you a phone number,” Mark said, not looking up. “I should have been able to give her a message tomorrow when I went, but…”Mark shuffled papers harder, and turned to his computer to tap information into a form. Hannibal felt forgotten.
“Change of plans?”
Eventually Mark said, “Well, yes. I would have followed Joan… Miss Kitteridge… this evening. But I’ll be at Reagan National tonight instead. Oscar’s mother is flying in from Germany. I’ve been tasked to pick her up. Not that I mind doing it, it’s just…” Mark looked up at Hannibal for sympathy.
“His mother? Not his parents?” Maybe his father was ill. Or perhaps the feud he had read about in her letter to him was more serious than he assumed. “When does Mrs. Peters arrive?”
Mark looked chastened, and his next words stumbled over each other coming out while his hands wandered through drawers, finally producing a flight itinerary. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course it’s our duty to host the lady while she’s in town. Joan would have done it herself but for, you know, the importance of this expo. And she’s getting here this evening. Nine oh-seven to be precise.”
Hannibal stood, pushing his hands into his pockets, curling them into fists there. He imagined a woman in her late forties or fifties, alone, stepping into a strange city in the middle of the night after eight hours in an airplane. She deserved to meet a sympathetic face. And he owed her something, somehow. Maybe just because he shared the guilt in Oscar’s death.
“Look, why don’t I meet her at the airport,” Hannibal said.
“Really? I mean, would you?” Mark flashed his fashion model smile while his flustered hands gathered papers to hand Hannibal. “I can give you her hotel reservations and everything. You’re a lifesaver.”
No, Hannibal thought. I’m not. That’s why she’s coming here.
It was a bone weary Hannibal Jones who returned to the Charter facility to meet with Bea and Doctor Roberts that night. He had watched the touching news piece on Channel 8 at six o’clock that portrayed Dean Edwards as another victim of Oscar Peters’ murderer. Stan Thompson had done his best, but still came across as the hard-bitten detective determined to bring in his man. The camera treated Bea well, her courage and love projecting right into the screen. To any viewer, she would be the heroine of this drama as it played out. Hannibal wanted to hear first hand about her television interview.
The nurse at the reception desk was pleasant and so soft spoken, Hannibal wondered as he had on earlier visits if she thought he was a patient. Or maybe she could not tell patients from visitors, so she treated everyone the same. She looked up from her computer screen with the same frozen solicitous smile worn by every woman he had ever seen in that chair, as if it were issued to them when they came on duty. She apparently had his name on a list of acceptable visitors because she directed him to Dean’s room as soon as he identified himself.
Bea greeted him with a hug so intense he was glad he decided not to bring Cindy along. Dean even mumbled hello, but he seemed to be looking through them. Hannibal reassured Bea that Dean would be safely hospitalized for a few days while he, Hannibal, searched for Oscar’s real killer. They talked briefly about her experience in front of the camera. Apparently Kate had led her gently with the right interview questions, soliciting the answers she wanted without actually putting words into her mouth. Then Dean moaned, Bea turned to hold his hand, and Hannibal eased Quincy Roberts out of the room. Hannibal said he had three questions for him, which he asked while they slowly strolled the antiseptic hallways, amid the murmurs and moans of the discontented residents.
“If the police could get through the proper channels they might get a writ of habeus corpus in three or four days. Will Dean be fit to be questioned by then?”
“Perhaps,” Roberts said. “At his present rate of progress it’s possible. Can’t be sure, you know. It’s not an exact science. He has a lot of issues to deal with.”
