“Oh, yeah, in my last job,” Hathaway said, nodding. “Golden Pharmaceuticals made me an offer when they built out here, and I had to get away from that city life. Come on in. We can talk on the patio. You want a beer?”
Hathaway was already walking away. Hannibal followed. When he closed the door behind himself he noticed the electronic security system. Even way out here, he thought.
The flagstone patio held two umbrella-topped tables and a gas grill that Hannibal at first mistook for a kitchen gas stove. Hathaway pulled a pair of mugs from under the grill, went to a short stainless steel refrigerator and started pumping.
“You keep beer on tap out here?”
“Well, we were partying out here last night, and we’ll be back here tonight,” Hathaway said, pouring foam from the top of the two mugs before setting them on a table. “The boys out this way sure love to party. There. Now we can talk like civilized people.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said. “Nothing’s more civilized than having a draft in your own yard. You certainly have hit the jackpot, Mr. Hathaway.”
“Buddy, please. Everybody calls me Buddy. And yes, life is pretty damned good right now. I was able to bring something special to the table at the new company. I imagine old Vernon did the same. How’s he doing?”
Hannibal took a moment to enjoy the reddish caste and slightly burnt roast aroma of his brew before tipping it to his lips. The frosted mug chilled his lips just before the smooth, malty liquid flowed between them. He didn’t know that Bass ale was even available in a keg.
“I’m afraid he never achieved your level of comfort,” Hannibal said. “I’m sorry to tell you that Vernon Cooper is dead.”
Hathaway’s mug stopped halfway to his mouth. It hung there for a few seconds while Hathaway seemed to consider this news. His lower lip moved forward just a bit and he nodded as if in salute to a fallen comrade. Then he raised his glass and drank down nearly half of its contents.
“That’s really a shame,” Hathaway said at last. “The man was a brilliant pharmaceutical chemist. If not for him… well. You never know, do you? Anyway, at least his little girl must be doing well with his legacy. What was her name?”
“Anita,” Hannibal said, leaning forward. “But no, she’s not doing all that well.”
“Well, she should be. Why didn’t she make use of what he left her?”
Hannibal could hear a slight wheeze in Hathaway’s chest. Perhaps he was asthmatic. “That is precisely why I’m here. Ms. Cooper knows that her father left her something of value, but he never told her what that legacy was. Now, we fear that someone has stolen or destroyed it.”
“Now that,” Hathaway said, waving his beer at Hannibal, “that would be a crying shame.”
“Indeed. That’s why I have to know what her inheritance was. I can’t find it for her if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
Hathaway sat back in silence, his mouth forming a hard vertical line. Hannibal stayed quiet, knowing that further pressure would not help. He imagined he could smell the beer from the night before on the table and the patio stones. Hathaway’s mouth dropped open but he considered his response for a few more seconds before actually speaking.
“Sorry, Jones, but I can’t tell you that.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s somebody else’s business and not mine to tell,” Hathaway said. “I can’t help you.”
Hannibal took his time rising to his feet. “I don’t think you understand. This is for his daughter. If it’s anybody’s business it’s hers. The guy who stole from her took advantage, and took things that probably can never be recovered. The one thing I can do is get back what her father wanted her to have. And you’re saying you won’t help?”
“I’m saying this is my town and I intend to keep it that way. And I’m saying it’s time for you to leave.”
Independence lacked even a single hotel, and Hannibal was quite pleased about that. He had booked one of the four rooms in the Davis-Bourne Inn, a Queen Anne Victorian mansion that was earning its living as a bed and breakfast. After changing his clothes he had enjoyed a fine lunch on the wraparound porch watching a young couple sharing lustful stares on the porch swing. Then he moved to a rocker and pulled out his cell phone. He was admiring the landscaped grounds and colorful gardens when he heard a familiar voice at the other end.
“Virgil? It’s Hannibal. Can I get you to help me out for a day’s pay? Great. No, this actually might call for a little finesse. Yeah, and bring Quaker with you. No, finesse isn’t really his style, is it? Well, that’s why I called you first.”
Brendon “Buddy” Hathaway sometimes thought that the best thing about his new life was that he could play his country music as loud as he wanted it without anybody whining. His outdoor speakers really rocked the house, but now that his last couple of guests were getting into their pickups he would go inside and turn the music down.
It had been quite a bash, with what might have been a record crowd of good old boys. He was pretty sure there were a couple of fellows there that night that he had never seen before. Not that it mattered. He had plenty of beer and the ribs had come off the grill just about perfect. Of course, that was five hours ago, but there were plenty of chips, nuts and pork rinds to keep anybody from going hungry.
Hathaway felt a chill as he stepped inside. He understood why. The side door had been standing open for hours, making the air conditioner run full tilt. He pulled the door closed and headed for the stairs. He had enough beer in him to guarantee a good night’s sleep. He was just reaching for the banister when he realized what was missing. The door hadn’t made the little beep noise that indicated the alarm was on. He needed to go set it at the box by the front door.
As he turned his bleary eyes toward the door he realized that he wasn’t alone. The skinny guy in front of him had wild brown hair over an angular face, sitting on top of a pencil neck. Hathaway thought he looked a lot like the star of the old Max Headroom television show.
“Who the hell are you?” Hathaway asked. “I didn’t say anybody could stay over tonight.”
The stranger shrugged. “Sucks, don’t it?”
Then someone pulled a cloth bag over Hathaway’s head and cinched its edges tight around his neck. Hathaway swung his arms wildly for a few seconds, but lack of oxygen combined with the impact of hours of heavy drinking turned his efforts to fight into meaningless thrashing in the dark. He felt a deeper darkness descending on him, and wondered if he was to die without ever knowing why.
Hathaway’s eyes fluttered open grudgingly, as if they blamed him for the pain bursting behind them. His hair was hanging in front of them, and he was staring through it at the wooden box he was standing on. He tried to raise his head without success. His arms were tied behind him, and he could not lower them. They must be tied to the ceiling, he reasoned.
“Hey, sleeping beauty’s awake.” That was the voice of the intruder Hathaway had seen just before he was attacked.
“Good,” a deep, flat voice said. “Let’s get what we came for and get the hell out of here.”
“What do you want with me?” Hathaway asked. Twisting his head he managed to get a brief look at the second man. He was very big and very black, with puffy arms and hands. The whites of his eyes had a brownish tint. Hathaway had seen that look on homeless men in Washington; men he assumed were drug addicts. This could be bad.
“You think he’ll talk if we just slap him around a bit?” the white intruder asked.
“Talk?” Hathaway asked. “Talk about what? Who the hell are you?” At that, the white man walked closer. The room was very dark, lit by only a couple of candles in a distant corner.
“You can call me Quaker,” the first man said. “It ain’t my official name, but it’ll do. There’s a fellow at Isermann — Borner wants to know exactly what you and Cooper stole from them. Something about proprietary information?”
Hathaway let his head drop. Did they think they could beat his secret out of him? Let them try, he thought.
