Medium height. Blue eyes, droopy jowls, double chin. Bald on top, gray around the sides… “ Hannibal flipped through available photos in his mind, and his jaw dropped open. “That’s Gil Donner. It’s got to be!”
“That’s him,” Cindy called, “That’s the guy from the funeral.”
Hannibal again waved to shush Cindy, and spoke into the phone. “Yes, I understand. No. Yeah, stay with him. And since he’s there, put Monty on Ruth. I don’t think she’ll be real mobile. But I got to know where Donner goes.”
When Hannibal hung up, Cindy asked, “You think there’s something going on between those two?”
“I don’t think he’d have traveled this distance for romance, and now I’ve got two people who’ve told me they didn’t act like lovers a thousand miles away from prying eyes.”
“Who cares?” It was Bea, still caressing Dean but with her tear-stained face pointed at Hannibal. “My heart goes out to Oscar’s mother, but what has either of these people from Germany to do with freeing Dean from these awful accusations?”
Hannibal approached the bed, but spoke to Dean who, for the moment, seemed the most rational person in the room. “The fact that Gil Donner came to the U.S. makes me think I’m not the only one who sees a connection between Oscar’s murder and the death of Donner’s wife. I’m not convinced she was a suicide. In any case, if Donner does see a connection, he must not think you’re the killer or he’d be here. I need to see what trail he’s following, because one thing’s for sure. He knows more than I do.”
Roberts pulled his thick glasses from his face and began to clean them on his tie, directing eyes down and away from Hannibal. “You have an interesting theory, Mister Jones,” he said, “but I fear a court of law would require a good deal more than that to see a connection between murders clearly separated by both time and distance. And the third murder, Dean’s father, doesn’t seem to figure into any of this at all.”
That remark seemed particularly callous to Hannibal with Dean sitting there, but before he could respond his phone rang again. He flipped it open, but didn’t get the chance to speak first.
“Dispatch? This is Santiago.”
“Ray?” Hannibal said into the little phone.
“Listen, the radio’s out so I’m calling in on my phone,” Ray said. “Just picked up a fare in Crystal City, headed to a Doctor Walter Young’s office up in Silver Spring. You copy?”
“Yes I do,” Hannibal said, a smile growing on his face as he hung up. “So what do you think, Doctor Roberts? Donner hailed a cab and my partner picked him up. He’s making a beeline for Walt Young’s office.”
“Walter Young?” Dean leaned forward so quickly he broke free of Bea’s embrace. “That was my mother’s lawyer’s name. Never forget that name.”
“You’re right on target there Dean,” Hannibal said. “And I can’t think of any reason for Donner to know Young exists unless we assume there is a connection between the three apparently separate murders.”
23
Even with his windows rolled down, the sunlight was turning Hannibal’s car into a white leather oven. An occasional bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, but he wiped it away with a handkerchief before it could roll down into his eyes. His shirt chafed his neck just a bit, and the noise from cars and passersby on the busy street was helping a small headache to start up at the base of his skull.
Beside him, Cindy was no more relaxed. In fact, she fidgeted constantly, shifting in her seat as if she was afraid her nylons might permanently weld themselves to the car seat if she sat still for any length of time. Every so often she would stare at Hannibal but she said nothing. He guessed she had no idea how he could stand this waiting.
But Hannibal learned about surveillance in the New York City police department, years before he ever applied to the Treasury Department. He remembered hot days and cold nights when he waited for several hours for something to happen. So he settled into his car seat twenty yards from the entrance to the target office building.
This time he stared through his dark lenses for less than an hour before Gil Donner pushed through the door and stalked down the street, doubtless looking for a taxi. Hannibal watched him move off in the direction of the District until he vanished from sight beyond the fast flowing cross traffic. Then Hannibal left his Volvo and led Cindy through the door Donner had come out of.
As Hannibal reached for the doorknob to enter the third floor office he realized he could not remember the last time he had seen a door quite like this one. Its stencil read simply, “Walter Young, Attorney” in plain block letters. A single lawyer’s name on the glass top half of the door, in this day of corporate thinking and legal teams. The mark of a man holding with very specific moral beliefs about how law should be practiced. Or, just as likely, the mark of a failure who refused to give up.
The door swung in as Hannibal reached for it, and he found himself face to face with a beefy man whose hair was cut long on top but short at the back, allowing a few strands to hang across his face in his haste. His tweed suit was cut loose on his stocky frame and his florid Irish face made Hannibal think of Spencer Tracy in those old movies his mother had loved so much.
“Walt Young, I assume?”
The man nodded as he shook Hannibal’s offered hand. “Yes, sorry, but I was just on my way out for a late lunch. Why not arrange an appointment with my receptionist?”
“Sir, it is quite urgent that we speak with you right away,” Cindy said from behind Hannibal. “A man’s life is at stake.”
“Well yes, isn’t it always?” Young said, yielding no ground despite being no more than a hand’s span from Hannibal’s face. “Doubtless he will survive until after I’ve had lunch.”
“When I talked to Francis Edwards she gave me the impression that you were more the concerned type,” Hannibal said. “You couldn’t save her, but we hoped you’d help us keep her son from the same fate.
“You spoke to Francis?” Young asked, taking a step back.
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “A week ago yesterday. Actually she goes by Mary Irons now, but it was her all right. Miss Santiago here represents her son Dean. He’s accused of a murder very similar to his father’s death.”
Cindy stepped forward, more fully blocking the door. “Mister Young, we’ve been able to keep Dean out of police hands because he’s emotionally fragile right now, but time is running out. I don’t believe Dean killed anyone, but because of the M.O. the next most likely suspect is his mother. We need your help to sort out the connections between the two murders.”
Young stared at the two intruders for five silent seconds. Then his shoulders dropped and he turned, waving them into his office. As he passed his receptionist’s desk he muttered, “Alice would you please order in for us all?”
Young’s inner office was tastefully appointed in dark wood. A traditional coat rack stood beside the door. Hannibal noticed the only full-size wooden filing cabinets he could remember seeing. Those, and the absence of a computer in the room, gave him the feeling of falling back to another time. He imagined this was the way Young’s office looked the first time Francis Edwards walked into it.
“Have a seat,” Young said. He dropped into his own chair and Hannibal and Cindy settled into a pair of ladder-back chairs facing Young’s heavy wooden desk. Young gave an approving smile, but Hannibal was not sure what he was smiling at. Perhaps he simply approved of their posture.
“So which is it?” Young asked. “You want to talk with me about this murder Dean Edwards is accused of, or ask me about the murder his mother was convicted of?”
“Both actually,” Hannibal said. The room smelled of smoke and Hannibal wondered how long it would be before Young needed to light up. “I’m convinced there’s a connection between the two, and also between them and the death of Gil Donner’s wife.”
Young’s eyes never reacted. He simply repeated the name, “Gil Donner?”
“The fellow who just left here?” Hannibal said.
“Yes. Tell me, were you tailing him, or am I under surveillance?” Young asked, just the hint of an edge in his voice. “And just who are you? I understand the young lady’s interest here but…”
