“I think I may have heard something about you,” Kate said. “All right. If. If this turns out to be a story that could be of general interest. If it does, will you call me?”
Hannibal stood and removed his glasses. She stared at his eyes, the way they often did. “If this ends up on the news in any way, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’re the reporter who breaks it, okay?”
“Fair enough,” Kate said rising and extending her hand. Hannibal accepted it and the strong handshake that came with it. “And you’re a story in yourself, aren’t you? A black man with blue eyes. Or are they?”
Hannibal drove just two blocks away from the television station before he pulled to the curb again. His instincts told him that Kate was a good reporter, and right now that was a bad thing. He had gotten lucky and tripped over a clue to Dean’s location. But she had the clue as well, and if she got involved she might chase it all away.
He flipped on the interior light and unfolded the form he had pocketed on his way to Kate’s desk. It had been on top of the pad of forms he filled out. Feeling a bit childish, Hannibal pulled a pencil from his glove compartment and began rubbing the side of the point across the form. Of course there was no way to be sure the woman who wanted Dean’s picture was the last person to fill one of these out. But it seemed a pretty secure guess.
A woman’s flowery script slowly came into view. The name was Mary Irons. The address looked to be a hotel room on Richmond Highway, just south of Alexandria. That made sense if Hannibal’s theory was correct. He turned off the light and put his car into gear. He knew Kate could find the same address in Channel 8’s files in the morning. She might be tempted to go looking for the thin blonde woman and chase her away. With luck, he could pin Dean down tonight, before Kate went looking for the mystery woman tomorrow.
On his way through the darkened streets, Hannibal popped an old Elton John CD into his player and began to rethink his position. Why would Dean’s accomplice need his picture from the news? Perhaps just to prove to him he wasn’t keeping a low enough profile. Was that a good reason to tell him to move on? Maybe, but the idea wasn’t hanging together as well as it once had.
It made even less sense as Hannibal pulled into the Alexandria Motel’s parking area. The motel was one long building, one story tall and one room wide, sitting with its short side facing the street but at an off angle. Its front doors faced the back of a brick building, a Chinese restaurant judging from the smell of the dumpsters. Peeling white paint covered the structure, and a row of narrow pillars supported a short overhang in front of the dozen or so doors. In the dying sunlight the place almost looked haunted, but he figured the only spirit around there was the ghost of disuse. Hannibal drove past the target door and parked at the far end of the drive. When he shut his car door it created an ominous echo, the sound bouncing between the motel and the back of the restaurant.
Hannibal knocked on the door of the room registered to Mary Irons, then stepped back from it. He had no idea what to expect but he was sure of one thing. No successful confidence man or woman would stay here. This was not the motel room of anyone fleecing wealthy marks.
When the door opened inward Hannibal was faced with another surprise, a man wearing only jeans and a belligerent expression.
“Yeah?” was all the man said. He was Hannibal’s height but a bit bulkier. Steel gray hair topped a swarthy Mediterranean face. Ink black eyebrows formed a pitched roof above dark eyes that were always looking for trouble. Hannibal guessed they had seen a lot of it. A mass of steel wool cluttered the man’s chest. A tattoo of a rose covered his left shoulder, and a chain tattoo wrapped his right biceps.
“You must be Mister Irons,” Hannibal said with a small smile.
“So?”
Friendly sort, Hannibal thought. “I need to speak to Mary if you don’t mind.”
The man squared his shoulders, sending a universal message. “She ain’t here. Beat it.” His breath threw the odor of stale beer into Hannibal’s face.
“Look, this is a matter of some importance.” Hannibal held his hands out in a gesture of peace. He hoped it was less obvious that he was also bracing for an attack.
“I said get lost,” Irons said, his voice low. His right foot moved forward and the heel of his right hand slammed out for Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal stood his ground and clamped both his hands over Irons’. By twisting slightly he locked Irons’ elbow. Then Hannibal leaned forward, not hard but just enough. Startled, the bigger man found himself driven to his knees.
“Who’s there, Harry?” A woman’s voice called from inside.
Harry looked up at Hannibal and shook his head from side to side. It was a small movement, indicating that he was ready to concede rather than have his woman see him in this position. Well, no point in embarrassing him. Besides, Hannibal wondered how much he knew. He released Harry’s hand and raised his voice. “I’m Hannibal Jones and I’d like just a moment of your time, ma’am. It’s about your photography order.”
Harry snapped up to his full height. Hannibal stood on the other side of the portal in the outside world and watched Harry’s eyes, as Harry watched his. The standoff lasted forever. Then, three minutes later, the woman spoke again very close behind Harry.
“Honey, would you excuse us for a minute? Please?” Harry turned and although Hannibal couldn’t see his face, he could imagine what was there. The woman raised a hand to his cheek, smiled and whispered, “It’s all right. I promise.”
Harry walked back into the shabby room and the woman stepped forward across the threshold.
“Mary Irons?” Hannibal asked.
“Who are you and why are you here? No one knows me here.”
Hannibal handed her his card, and waited for her to read it and try to imagine his purpose. If she did, she was not about to let him know.
“What’s this about, Mister Jones?” she asked, easing the door closed behind her.
“I think you know. You wanted a photo of Dean Edwards. Then you went and visited him. I’d like to know why.”
She took a minute to appear to be searching her memory. “Dean Edwards? I’m not sure I know him. Friend of yours?”
The harsh shadows of twilight didn’t help her one bit. Dark roots held her thin yellow hair in place. Makeup could not conceal the lines of worry, of fear, of living etched into her face. Not a hard woman, he decided, not a criminal. Yet there was a steel rod at her center, deep down. And much of her surface tenderness had been worn away somehow. All that aside, he was certain that she was no confidence woman. She was, in fact, an abysmal liar.
“I’m not accusing you of a crime, ma’am. But I have an eyewitness who says you were at his house Saturday morning from about ten-thirty to maybe eleven a.m. You waited until his fiancee had left for a shopping trip. Shall I describe what you were wearing?”
She was jumpy as a caged hamster, and she reacted to his words as if they were a series of blows. Her china blue eyes appeared chipped. “No, that won’t be necessary. I guess you must mean that boy I saw Saturday. He wasn’t who I thought he was.”
“Really? And who did you think he was?” Hannibal turned away and took a small step away to ease the pressure on her. She followed, maintaining a constant two-foot distance. Then they were walking together.
“Someone else,” she said. “Someone I knew a long time ago. I’ve been away a long time, Mister Jones. People change over the course of a decade.”
Now that she was talking, Hannibal decided to be quiet for a minute to see what fell out. Most people hate silence. It is often the interrogator’s best weapon. While he waited, he examined her body language and posture. She had been a hellcat once, he decided, but something had squeezed that out of her. From what little he knew of Dean Edwards, this woman was more likely to be one of his old victims than his old partner. Someone had hurt her deeply, and it could well have been Dean.
Just as he was about to give up on quiet, she said, “Look, Mister, I don’t want any trouble and I hope you won’t tell that young man where I am. Harry and me, we’re trying to keep a low profile here, okay?”
She didn’t know Dean was gone. She probably thought he sent Hannibal looking for her. They turned and headed back toward the door. It was open a crack and Hannibal saw one of Harry’s eyes in the dark space. When they reached the end of their little stroll, Hannibal positioned himself so that the woman’s body blocked Harry’s view of him. He handed her one of his cards.
“If you think of anything you think someone ought to know, give me a call, okay?” he said. “I don’t know what
