knew his plan wasn’t working.
“Oh, child, are you all right?”
“It’s just a headache, ma’am,” he said, stepping through the doorway. “Anita?”
“Downstairs waiting for you. Now you be kind, you hear? She’s not looking her best.”
At the bottom of the stairs Hannibal discovered that Mother Washington had been both right and very wrong. Physically, Anita did not look her best. The pale bruising under her eyes made her look jaundiced, and her right cheek was swollen just enough to make her face appear lopsided. Her nose was also still a little bigger than it should have been, swollen during its healing process. Her lower lip looked as if she had split it, maybe by smiling too much or crying too much. It was healing, but the red line down the middle told him that doctors had removed the stitch too soon.
On the other hand, her eyes were bright and lively, and her posture a tiny bit more erect than before. She was holding her head up. This last beating may have given her strength, he thought, or maybe it freed her from Rod Mantooth for good.
“Why are you looking at me so funny?”
“Sorry,” Hannibal said, smiling. “I just didn’t expect you to look so good.”
Anita flushed crimson at his remark. “You’re so full of stuff. But, listen, Mother Washington said something about you having an idea on how to get Daddy’s formula back. Did you actually, I mean, have you seen Rod?”
“Yes, we’ve met now,” Hannibal said, avoiding her eyes as he walked toward the computer desk. “And I know he hasn’t sold your father’s formula yet, but he will soon, unless I can trick him into showing me where he stashed it. What he has is on a gold CD-Rom.”
“Oh, one of these,” Anita said. She slid a storage case forward on a shelf and blew dust from its top before opening it. The case held two rows of CDs. Light glinted off them, stabbing into Hannibal’s eyes, sparking the pain again. He forced himself to look at the labels.
“Marquita remembers seeing one of these in Rod’s possession. She says it had a white label that said something like formula.”
“Right.” Anita flipped through the discs, all of which bore white labels. She moved slowly through the stack, and then turned to Hannibal with a crooked smile that twisted his heart. It had to hurt her to smile.
“One of the formula set is missing. It’s number 4-9-3.”
“That is exactly what Marquita said. Wow, that writing is so precise. Did you make all the labels yourself?”
“Of course,” Anita said. “Daddy’s writing was atrocious and we never could figure out how to print the labels so they’d come out even.”
Hannibal lowered himself slowly into the desk chair. This was being too easy. “It’s the bait I need. Can you make me a duplicate of the missing disc?”
Anita’s eyes flashed and he could almost hear her pulse quicken. “Will it help you to get Daddy’s real disc back?” When Hannibal nodded, she said, “I will make it exactly like the one he took. We’re going to get my legacy back.”
Five minutes later Hannibal and Anita went upstairs, drawn by the aroma of chicken and the inviting crackle of oil in a deep pan. When they entered the kitchen Mother Washington spoke without turning.
“Child, could you get my pills from my pocketbook? I left it up in the guest room.”
Anita nodded and headed up the stairs. Mother Washington waved Hannibal toward her. He stood beside her, watching the chicken turning golden almost as if she were willing it to do so. She pushed pieces around with a slotted spoon and spoke in a lower tone.
“This man, this Rod Mantooth, you met him?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“He a monster,” she said as if she’d known him all her life.
“Yes ma’am.”
“You take care of him, you hear me? You stop him.”
“What would you have me do?” Hannibal asked, looking at Mother Washington’s matronly face. “Want me to shoot him? Or just drop him down a well?”
Her eyes shot fire at him, and her breathing grew deep and labored. Hannibal could clearly see that she saw nothing funny in this situation. “That child will never be right. That man hurt her in ways only a woman can be hurt. You just make sure he don’t do it no more, you hear? The Lord loves all his children, but sometimes I don’t understand it.”
Hannibal’s street was quiet when he pulled into his traditional parking space, across the street from his building. Not much movement for a Saturday afternoon, not even kids running up and down the street. It was even too hot for troublemakers that day.
Stepping out of the White Tornado he could smell the heat rising from the asphalt. The humidity pasted his clothes to his body, but he paused a moment to listen to an unfamiliar tapping sound. Three doors down, a lone workman was hammering at a windowsill, putting a flower box in place. Wilson had been working on upgrades there for a few weeks. During the week he patrolled the many parks in the District. The park police got little respect but they did get a steady paycheck and on the weekend, pride of ownership pushed him to keep improving his home. Hannibal thought Wilson was a good addition and wondered if he was a sign that the neighborhood was coming back, or just one step in the cycle of gain and loss that had haunted Southeast Washington for the better part of a century.
Inside he wasted no time losing his jacket and tie and rolling up his sleeves. Then he filled the coffee pot basket with the Hawaiian Kona coffee beans that he special ordered from a supplier in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware called The Coffee Mill. He filled the reservoir with filtered water from the refrigerator. He listened to the grinder do its thing and stood by long enough to fill his lungs with the aroma at the start of the brewing process. That done, he grabbed the disc he had gotten from Anita and went upstairs.
His knock at Sarge’s door prompted some physical shuffling on the other side, and what Hannibal would swear sounded like clothes being readjusted. He took a step backward, grinning as he imagined Sarge’s embarrassment. He didn’t have to imagine for long. When Sarge pulled the door open, wearing jeans and an undershirt, Hannibal could see extra color in his mahogany face and his smile was much broader than usual.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh, you didn’t interrupt anything,” Sarge hastened to say.
“Whatever, man. Want me to come back later?”
“Don’t be silly, brother,” Sarge said, waving his friend inside. “Want some coffee?”
“Not that sludge you make,” Hannibal said, following Sarge into the kitchen. “I got the real stuff brewing downstairs.”
Sarge pulled out two large mugs bearing a globe and anchor and, ignoring Hannibal, poured two cups of coffee. “You know, I been thinking about this plan of yours, Hannibal. I think it’s got one big hole in it.”
“Really?” Hannibal dropped the disc on the table to pick up his cup. “Well I’m always willing to listen, buddy. What did I miss?”
“Your exit strategy’s weak,” Sarge said, leaning back against the sink and taking a big swallow of coffee. “What if you get busted after you’ve scored the prize? You could find yourself cornered and outnumbered, know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” Hannibal said, suppressing a smile.
“Now what you need,” Sarge said, completely serious, “is some backup. I figure if I follow you down there and hang back, outside…”
Hannibal sipped, and fought screwing up his face at the bitter taste. “Damn, that coffee is awful…” When Sarge raised his eyebrows, Hannibal added, “Good. Awful good. But man, I have a sneaking suspicion that all you really want is to get close enough to get your hands on Rod Mantooth. I don’t know if I want to put you in that…”
“Mon Dieu!” Marquita, having just stepped into the kitchen, stood with one hand raised to her mouth. Hannibal and Sarge turned toward her, not sure what had caused her reaction until they followed her eyes down to the table.
“It is the disc,” she said. “That is the one Rod had on the boat.”
