“I realized this morning that I hadn’t thanked you properly, Mister Jones. What you did last night…the way you did it. I mean, I know you could have really hurt Isaac, and I remembered today that when you got in your car I could see you were carrying a gun. Thank you for helping us, and for not hurting him.”
“Mrs. Ingersoll…” Hannibal began.
“Janet. Please.”
“Well then, Janet, when Monty rings my phone on a Saturday night screaming that it’s a matter of life and death I don’t hesitate.”
“But, you usually get paid for this kind of thing, right?” she asked. “I must owe you…”
Hannibal chuckled. “Actually, Monty was my client last night, and we’ll work something out. But how are you doing in that area anyway? I mean, do you have enough money?”
Janet’s shoulders seemed to lower a bit, as if talking relaxed her. Nicky was sitting beside Monty chewing on a burger. Her eyes followed his movements for a moment, and then returned to Hannibal. “We’ll be all right. I’m not exactly pulling in millions down at the DMV, but I think I can feed the two of us if we can find a place to live.”
“I might be able to help with that part,” Cindy said. “My firm’s senior partner owns quite a bit of investment property. I’ll bet he has a vacancy for anyone I vouch for.”
“You’d do that?”
“For a friend of Hannibal’s?” Cindy said. “Any time. But I’m curious. How did you end up living in Southeast to begin with? Most of the folks in this part of the city are only here because they can’t be anywhere else.” Her eyes cut to Hannibal with cold sarcasm.
“Isaac moved us here from North Dakota because he was to be a right guard for the Redskins,” Janet said. “We left everything behind to chase his dream. But some things happened at the training camp. Isaac didn’t fit in with the team. He has a temper, as Mister Jones knows all too well. Other team members just didn’t want to work with him.”
Hannibal put his rib down on his plate and leaned over the table as he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Okay, so you were in Washington and didn’t know anyone,” he said, his mouth not quite empty. “But why…”
“For a very long time Isaac refused to believe he couldn’t play football,” Janet said, her hand raised as if to goad her audience into understanding. “He kept thinking they’d call him back. We had no money, no friends, nothing. I eventually found work, but we were so broke. One of the other players owned that building we live in and he had a vacancy. Anyway, it was the first apartment that looked like we might be able to afford it. It sounded like he was doing us a favor at the time, but now I think maybe it was all a big joke on Isaac. We don’t belong there. Still, I tried so hard to keep our family together, for little Nicky’s sake. But Isaac just sat all day, stewing in his anger, and the longer he sat, the angrier he got until he had to lash out at something and…”
As she spoke Janet’s eyes squeezed shut, her head lowered, and her outstretched hand gradually curled into a tightly balled fist. Hannibal looked at Cindy, but neither had any idea what to do or how to help.
Then a white-gloved hand rested gently on Janet’s shoulder. Hannibal looked up to see Mother Washington standing behind Janet, her round dark face aglow from the rapture of a recent Pentecostal church service. That loving glow softened the worry lines covering her kindly face, but Hannibal could still see them, even shadowed by her broad-brimmed black church hat. She was a big woman, and her black dress reached nearly to her ankles, but no kinder person lived in Hannibal’s world. When she spoke to him, it was the voice of everyone’s grandmother.
“This child needs me right now, and the help the Lord can give when we go to Him in prayer,” Mother Washington said, looking down at Janet. Then she pointed back toward the house. “That child needs you, and what you can do. Go help her.”
Hannibal looked past Mother Washington to find another black woman standing in his kitchen doorway. This one was no one’s grandmother, judging by her apparent age. She was in fact as petite as Janet, nicely rounded and attractive without being aggressive about it. She wore a conservative navy blue skirt suit and heels that added a couple of artificial inches to her height. Her black hair was straightened and hung to shoulder length. Long artistic fingers clung to a small clutch purse as if for dear life.
“Well, go on,” Cindy said. “Can’t you see she’s got trouble?”
Yes, Hannibal could see that. It was clear, on her face and in her body language. And as he stood, he saw his perfect Sunday afternoon fading in the distance. He considered that for a selfemployed man he often seemed to take orders from a lot of people. Partially in revenge and partially in self-defense, he reached down to capture Cindy’s hand.
“I’ll go, but not alone.”
At the door, Hannibal held out his hand and introduced himself and Cindy. The woman took his hand in a solid grip, and did the same with Cindy.
“Very pleased to meet you. I’m Bea Collins. Mrs. Washington tells me you’re very good at helping people. And I’m afraid I need some help today.”
“Let’s not talk out here,” Hannibal said. “There’s a party going on and I hate to ruin it. My office is right next door.”
Mother Washington had escorted Bea through Hannibal’s unlocked front door and through his kitchen to the backyard. He took her to the door on the other side, just a few feet away. The kitchen they entered was never used.
Hannibal didn’t like to do business this way: in jeans and sneakers, with barbecue sauce under his nails. He escorted Bea through the flat he used for business, past the spare guest bedroom, the storage room, the room with weights and the hanging heavy bag he sometimes used, to the big front room that was his office. He settled behind his desk and waved his visitor into the facing chair. Cindy sat at the smaller desk by the door. Thick shafts of sunshine poured in through the two big windows on Hannibal’s left, splashing the room with brightness and calling his mind away from work. With an effort he ignored the light and focused on the nervous woman in front of him. She was staring at his eyes, but they often did at first. He ignored it unless they were curious enough or rude enough to ask about them. Her own eyes were a soft fawn brown, and very vulnerable.
“All right, Miss Collins, you seem to know a bit about me from Mother Washington. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself and what kind of trouble you’ve found yourself in?”
“Myself?” Bea asked as if the question were a surprise. “Well, I’m an interior design architect with offices in Georgetown. The trouble is that Dean, that’s my fiance, Dean Edwards, he disappeared yesterday. I think he might be in danger.” It sounded to Hannibal like a response on the Dating Game. But while she spoke, Bea sat leaning forward on the edge of her chair with her knees clamped together and her fingers wrapped around the top of the purse in her lap. Her posture reminded Hannibal of a dog sitting up to beg. Her eyes were begging too.
“Disappeared?” Hannibal asked. He had learned to ask open, general questions if he wanted full answers.
“Yesterday, Mister Jones. I went out shopping early. When I got home he was, well, just gone.”
“So, you live together.” That implied a degree of commitment, but no diamond ring adorned her hand.
Bea was about to answer when Mother Washington and Janet entered the room. Bea’s eyes cut to Mother Washington and she hesitated. Pressured by Hannibal’s gaze she said, “Yes, he lives at my place now. For the last couple weeks. Three, actually.”
“I see. And what makes you think he’s in danger?” Hannibal asked.
Bea’s face said that was a stupid question. “Well, why else would he be gone? Without a word, without even a note?”
Hannibal could think of several possibilities, but none he would expect this woman to be interested in hearing. Instead he asked “Is Dean in with a bad crowd? Involved with drugs or some sort of illegal activity?” When Bea’s eyes cut to Cindy, Hannibal added, “Ms. Santiago is an attorney and anything said in her presence will be kept in strictest confidence.”
“It hardly matters. My Dean would never use drugs or do anything illegal.”
Hannibal nodded, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “You’ve filed a police report, of course.”
“Yes, this morning, but those people don’t care. They won’t twitch a muscle until a body turns up dripping blood.”
An exaggeration of course, but Hannibal knew the police would not invest resources into a search for an adult missing less than twenty-four hours, and to his way of thinking there was good reason for that. He leaned forward
