right?” At least this much of Hathaway’s story held up. It wouldn’t be hard to fake notes, show failure when there was success, or simply work on one thing while appearing to work on another, especially if you had a coworker covering for you.
“Okay, now a more theoretical question. What would you say if someone told you they had developed a cure for drug addiction?”
“I would say that they are either lying or several years ahead of medical science,” Roberts said. “It’s theoretically possible, at least for the chemical dependency, not the psychological slice.”
“So it could be done? And it would have commercial value?”
“Its value today could hardly be measured,” Roberts said. “To free people of drug addiction with a simple pill or shot instead of years of therapy? It’s like a pharmaceutical holy grail. And yes, it’s possible in theory. One could develop a vaccine I suppose, that would create antibodies that could destroy the drug before it could affect you. Or it might just prevent the drug from passing through the blood-brain barrier. You’d be full of the addictive material, but you wouldn’t get the high, and that would make breaking the addiction cycle much easier. Squashing the brain’s addiction response would be much harder, but still possible I guess. Hannibal, should I take it that this is more than a theoretical conversation? What you’re talking about could be the pivotal pharmaceutical advance of our age.”
Hannibal was listening, but also watching for his exit. As it came near he signaled right, which prompted the driver beside him to speed up to fill the gap Hannibal was about to drive into.
“You dick!”
“I beg your pardon?” Roberts said.
“Sorry, Doc. Thanks a lot for the background info. I think what you’re talking about is what someone stole from one of my clients, and now I have some ideas about how the thief might want to sell the formula. Hey, I need to focus on driving right now.”
“Keep me posted on this new theoretical discovery,” Robert said. “I have some patients who could be saved by just such a miracle drug.”
The balance of the day consisted of the kind of grunt work most private detectives pay their bills with. Hannibal searched court files, property records and motor vehicle records for any sign of a recent address for Rod, Roderick or Roger Mantooth. He accessed Mantooth’s prison records for past addresses, and ran each one down to its predictable dead end. Mantooth had listed no next of kin or emergency contact numbers. Credit bureau records proved equally useless. Military records appeared nonexistent. The few numbers that matched his name in national telephone directories proved to belong to solid citizens who could not be the man Hannibal sought.
When he finally returned home Hannibal’s frustration burned in his stomach like bad Mexican food. This time, as he entered his building he looked to the left, toward his own apartment. But, feeling that his work day shouldn’t be over, he turned right and went to his office. He had just turned the doorknob when Ray entered the building behind him.
“Hey, how’s it hanging Paco?” Ray called. “You found the bad guy yet?”
Hannibal shook his head as he flung the door open. “This one’s being a bitch, and I’m afraid I’m running out of time. Any sign of the Corvorado?”
“Oh, that half Cadillac thing? Nada. None of the driver’s has spotted it. And from your description, it would be pretty hard to miss.”
Hannibal nodded, but said nothing more as Ray climbed the stairs to his own apartment. There was plenty for them to talk about, but Ray looked tired at the end of a long workday, and Hannibal had to admit he was focused on Mantooth, an abusive thief who had gone to ground very effectively.
Inside, Hannibal poured the remains of the morning’s pot down the sink and pulled out a French press to brew one more perfect cup. Ray had a point. That car would be almost impossible to miss if it was on the streets anywhere in the area. That raised an ugly thought. Had Mantooth moved on? Despite his apparent arrogance he may have realized that beating Anita would raise his profile enough to catch someone’s attention.
At his desk, Hannibal stared into the transparent cylinder as if all the answers he needed were swirling inside with the coffee as he pushed the plunger down. But as shadows lengthened in the room, his computer monitor drew his attention. After filling his mug, he tapped a key and thought about the community he had so recently poked his virtual nose into.
In search of more insight, Hannibal returned to one of the chat rooms he had visited Saturday night. He hoped that a stranger might tell him what neither Anita nor Marquita could: how a woman could get caught up in this game of dominance.
As soon as he logged into the chat room he was greeted by several identical messages, “Hello Hannibal Sir.” He selected one of the speakers, nicknamed charmer, and after a few fumbles managed to open a private window.
“Hello. Can we talk for a minute?” Hannibal typed. Even through the computer it felt more like hitting on a girl in a bar than like the start of an interview.
“Yes Sir,” charmer responded. “How may i serve You?”
Hannibal was tempted to tell her to drop the “Sir,” but decided that if she did, it might make her less likely to respond. “I’m new here and just trying to learn,” he said. “Would you be willing to tell me how you got involved in such violent role-play?”
A short pause. “Violent? Not sure i understand, Sir.”
“Are you new as well?” Hannibal asked. “Don’t you know what these guys do to their girls?” This time the pause was much longer.
“You aren’t familiar with the lifestyle at all, are You Sir?”
“I admit I’m not,” Hannibal typed. “Just trying to learn.” The next typed line was the first of many surprises for him.
“This is not merely online play for me, Sir. i am submissive in R/L.” This, he had figured out, was the abbreviation for “real life.” For some reason, his mouth felt drier and he gulped coffee before typing again.
“You are a masochist then?” Reading his words he wondered if he had just insulted her. To her credit, charmer surprised him again with a calm response.
“BDSM is not about violence, Sir. It’s something sexy and trusting you do with someone you care about. i trust Master completely and take joy in pleasing Him. In return, He protects and nurtures me.”
“And it’s okay for this person you care about to beat you?” Hannibal asked.
“If Master punishes me, it is because i have done something wrong and deserve it.”
He easily imagined Anita saying those words not long ago. He sipped his coffee, wanting to push the conversation farther.
“And if he decides to lend you out to other men? Do you deserve that too?”
“Master would never do that, Sir.” charmer said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Sir, are you a reporter?” charmer asked.
“No, I promise you I’m not.” Hannibal replied. “Please help me understand how you can be so confident he wouldn’t give you away.”
“Master loves me,” charmer said. “And besides, that is one of my limits.”
“Limits?” Hannibal asked, pausing to think before typing again. “I don’t understand.”
“When He took me as His own, Master gave me His rules, which i must obey. At the same time i gave him my limits, which are the things i will not or cannot do. i would not be collared by a man unless we could agree on limits. Nor would a Master take a sub who did not respect His rules.”
Hannibal sat back farther from the glow of the screen. He knew that the collar signified ownership, but apparently it did not suspend all rights. Had Anita or Marquita established limits? That seemed unlikely. Perhaps Rod had only shown them one side of this life. And maybe this whole thing wasn’t as black and white as Hannibal had assumed.
“Your limits don’t include his beating you?”
“As i said, Sir, Master would not punish me unless i deserved to be punished.”
“But it’s up to him how much of a beating you deserve,” Hannibal said. “He could injure you, brutalize you.” At this point his thoughts flowed directly into the keyboard, almost like thinking aloud.
“Are You purposely testing me, Sir?” charmer asked. “You can tell Master that I have no fear. He is not a
