Hannibal looked to Cindy to ask the hard question.
“Mister Peters, I understand why Oscar might think Carla was murdered. But why would he tell anyone he knew a witness to that crime?”
Foster looked up calmly. “Miss, he lied. He lied to make it look as if I would falsify an investigation. He knew that impugning my police work was the most effective way to hurt me. He was good at that.”
Hannibal drained his glass. Watching Foster stare down at the glossy pages he realized he had gotten all he could from this man. Foster Peters was more alone than Hannibal ever wanted to be.
“We’ll be going now,” Hannibal said. “Thank you for your time.”
“Oh here,” Foster said, flipping the book to Hannibal as they walked toward the door. “Take that with you.”
Hannibal caught the book but immediately held it out toward Foster again. It was a yearbook from Frankfurt American High School. “You don’t want to give this away.”
“Why not?” Foster held the door open for them. “Maybe his friends in the States will want to see it. It was all I had of him until he got back, but now he’s not… you think I should be there, don’t you? With his mother. Well, it’s too late now, don’t you see? Too late to have him back again.”
Cindy averted her eyes and moved off toward the car. Hannibal hesitated, but realized it was too late for this man. “I’ll give this to your wife,” he finally said. “I don’t think she’ll let him go so easily.”
“I’ll never call my neighborhood in Alexandria, Old Town again,” Cindy said, clutching a painting she had just purchased from a street vendor.
“Yes, this is the real thing,” Hannibal said. He was glad to see Cindy smiling again. Their conversation with Foster Peters had left her depressed, but he didn’t think that man’s self serving bitterness should be allowed to ruin her day. Besides, that was not what he brought her to Germany for. So he took her to Heidelberg’s old town, thinking a stroll there would lighten her mood.
In the crisp clarity of the afternoon sun, he walked her to Hauptstrasse walkplatz, the half-mile long pedestrian mall in the middle of the old town district. He felt a brief moment of deja vu because Alexandria, Virginia’s old town area clings to the banks of a narrow river as well. But the Neckar River flows more swiftly than the Potomac, and so is much cleaner. This day the sun skipped golden discs across its crystal blue surface when he caught sight of it.
Cindy wandered without any particular purpose through the warren of cobblestone streets with Hannibal in tow. An endless flow of shops and cafes caught her attention, offering all the usual tourist paraphernalia and a few less usual choices like artwork and antique books.
They shared an outdoor table at a small but delicious smelling restaurant before reality again intruded, and it was Cindy who broached the subject at hand.
“So, do you think Oscar might have been right about a murder?”
Hannibal bit into his schnitzel like a long lost friend. The pork was crisp and golden beneath the thick brown sauce. He made an “mmmmm” sound and smiled contentedly behind a faraway look.
“Hannibal, please.” Cindy said, grinning herself. “It’s a pork chop in mushroom gravy for crying out loud. Now what do you think?”
“Schnitzel is not a pork chop,” Hannibal said with a nearly straight face. “And jaegerso?e is not simply mushroom gravy. And I’m not sure what to think about Oscar’s suspicions. There’s certainly good reason to wonder. I mean, his father pretty much admitted he was covering something up.”
“True,” Cindy said, and then, as if it was part of the same conversation she added, “It certainly is charming here. And the people are so, I don’t know, hospitable. Not like Frankfurt at all. Rather surprising.”
“Why?” Hannibal asked, sipping his wine. “Is Washington like Pittsburgh? Heidelberg is kind of the romantic heart of Germany.”
“Poetic,” Cindy said, digging into her own potato salad. “So are we finished with business here?”
Hannibal sat back and took a big swallow from his glass. He had chosen an alt bier from farther north, thick and dark with a nice malty flavor. “I’m thinking I might like to chat with Donner a bit about his wife’s death.”
“Sometimes you’re like a terrier with a bone,” Cindy said. “How do you figure to find this Donner character, anyway?”
“Just like back in the States, babe. I’ll look in the phone book.”
Hannibal wandered through the bar in his working clothes and glasses, feeling out of place for the first time since he returned to Germany. Gil Donner had insisted Hannibal come alone, and picked a place they could be anonymous.
The place was The Schiwmmbad, and it was more American than Hannibal wanted to believe. First the place was huge. There were two dance floors, a theater, two bars and a stage in the building. And the place was loud. The music was live, and the sort people call alternative these days. To Hannibal it was rock music that just missed the target. But the young crowd, about half American military, seemed into it.
Hannibal hated pushing through crowds. He hated the drunken laughter that surrounded him, mixing with the music. And he hated the stale beer smell that seemed to rise out of the hardwood floors. All in all, he wanted this to be over.
A fellow who looked as if he just stepped out of an Army recruiting poster appeared at Hannibal’s side, tapped his shoulder and pointed. The man at the booth ahead stared at Hannibal with a disappointed half smile. His gray sport coat and open collared white shirt seemed out of place in that bar. His eyes were hard deep blue marbles, which had retained the sharpness of youth while everything around them had fallen to the will of time. Donner’s cheeks sagged into a double chin. What hair he retained, around the sides and back of his head, was peppered with gray. His body in general had softened, but Hannibal could see the hard core at the center of him that his eyes betrayed.
When Hannibal reached the booth, his Ranger type escort signaled that he should sit opposite Donner. Hannibal imagined being pinned into his seat by this hard looking kid and shook his head. On second appraisal, the young fellow had to be six foot two, maybe one eighty, and the leather jacket and pants did little to hide his trim muscular frame. His hair was so light a blond that the severely Ranger haircut left him looking almost bald. His brown eyes were as hard as Donner’s.
“After you,” Hannibal said, waving a hand toward the booth. The Ranger type grabbed Hannibal’s right arm and pushed, looking surprised at the resistance. Hannibal’s left fist curled, his arm pulling back.
“It’s okay, Cook,” Donner said. The Ranger type stopped pushing, and slowly released Hannibal. Hannibal stepped aside and again pointed to the vinyl-covered seat.
“Sit,” Hannibal said, as if addressing a trained hound. Cook’s eyes went from Hannibal to Donner and back, before he slid into the booth. Hannibal settled beside him and turned his attention to Donner, tuning the other man out.
“I’m not here looking for trouble,” Hannibal said, lacing his gloved fingers on the table. “I’m just looking for the facts.”
Donner sipped from the only beer on the table. When he spoke he did not raise his voice above the room noise, forcing Hannibal to lean in to hear. “Mister Jones, this is all a mystery to me and I don’t like surprises. Carla, rest her soul, is fifteen years in the grave. Why on earth are you asking about her now?”
“I don’t think the truth can hurt you at this point, Mister Donner, but it could save a young man a jail sentence.”
Donner nodded, and sampled his beer again. He stared into the glass like a crystal ball. “You mean the man accused of killing Foster’s son, Oscar. You are concerned with the motive, yes? But you spoke with Foster. I believe he told you all there is to know.”
“He didn’t tell me who found the body,” Hannibal said, raising his voice as the band blasted louder. “Or where the crime took place.”
Donner stared deeper into the glass, as if reading a script there. “I found the body, Mister Jones. Me. I found her lying in that tub.”
Cook’s presence, Donner’s attitude, a dozen subtle subconscious clues prodded Hannibal’s thinking into a new direction. What was not said suddenly seemed important. “She wasn’t home, was she?”
“Why do you ask?”
