“Right, only Bachir says he ain’t. While they were driving today he started talking to him in that crazy stuff they speak.”
“Arabic,” Hannibal said. “You saying Gana don’t speak Arabic?”
Ray pulled a thin cigar out of his pocket. “No, Bachir says he speaks it fine. Just got the wrong accent. Now, Bachir says they speak the same language in all the Arab countries, but it’s all different. You know, like guys from Texas speak English, but they don’t sound like guys from here.”
“So your man says Gana isn’t Algerian.”
“Says this guy’s probably never been in Algeria,” Ray said, pulling out an ancient Zippo lighter and puffing his cigar into life.
“OK, then where’s he from?”
“He don’t know,” Ray said. “Says there are like twenty other countries he might be from. Bachir just says that for sure he ain’t Algerian. Say, you going to offer me some of that?” Ray hooked his thumb toward the half-empty second bottle of vodka.
“Why don’t you grab it and let’s go,” Hannibal said, taking one step into the hallway. I was about to turn in anyway. You can take the bottle on up to your room and finish it. I really don’t need to drink any more.”
“Yeah,” Ray said, standing and grabbing the bottle by its neck. “I can see that for sure.”
12
Morning brought shifting clouds and the first truly cool breeze of the season. Driving into the city of Fairfax, Virginia, Hannibal’s thoughts were also gray and shifting. If Ray’s driver was right, Gana wasn’t really a native Algerian but he very much wanted people to believe he was. He must have been a world-class confidence man to have done the kind of deep background research necessary to answer Hannibal’s questions. In Hannibal’s experience, the only people who knew their legends that well were in the espionage business. If his enemies were actually hunting a spy, Viktoriya might really be in danger just standing too close to him.
But Hannibal’s houseguest was much more confounding. Was he capable of killing the father of the woman he loved? Hannibal wasn’t sure, so he decided to take him up on his suggestion and talk to the police.
A quick Internet search brought up old newspaper reports and gave him the few sketchy facts made public about Nikita Petrova’s death. One of those facts was the name of the primary investigating detective and that fact made Hannibal smile. He knew that name.
He parked in the large lot attached to the county building complex because an earlier call had told him that the man he needed to talk to was testifying in court that morning. He loaded his cell phone, loose change, and automatic into his glove compartment. He wouldn’t need them, and he wanted to avoid as much drama as possible at the metal detectors.
Once inside, he sat at the back of a courtroom, waiting for the detective’s turn to testify. He did so in concise terms, with the kind of fanatic accuracy that makes it almost impossible for opposing council to reinterpret the facts. When he was finished, he nodded to the judge and left the stand with little fanfare. At the same time, Hannibal left his seat for the nearest exit.
He was beside the door for less than a minute before saw the detective approaching him. As usual, he wore a tan suit and a bulldog’s expression. His straw-colored hair was still cut in a severe, military style, and his blue eyes still spoke of how dangerous he could be. He stopped in front of Hannibal, his hands going to his hips.
“Well, if it isn’t Hannibal Jones, defender of the innocent.”
“Orson Rissik,” Hannibal said with a smile. “Prosecutor of the guilty. I see you’re still bringing them in and locking them up.”
“That’s what they pay me to do,” Rissik said. “But what brings you to the courthouse today? One of your clients in trouble?”
“Actually, I’m here to see you,” Hannibal said. “Can I buy you lunch?”
Rissik shrugged. “Sure. I’ve got a pretty short break and I was about to walk down the hill to get a sandwich. Come on.”
The two men crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk. Hannibal didn’t usually like to work with the police because so many of them had their own agenda. Orson Rissik had only one agenda that Hannibal knew of. He wanted to put criminals in jail.
“So, you said you were looking for me but you didn’t say why.”
“I wanted to get some information related to a case I’m working on right now,” Hannibal said. “I need details on the Petrova murder.”
“That was three or four years ago,” Rissik said, his brows pulling together. “A real tragedy. He left a wife and daughter, I think.”
“That’s the one. I’m just trying to find out if it was officially declared a murder.”
“That was three years ago,” Rissik said. “You expect me to have the details of the case off the top of my head?”
“I know you, Orson,” Hannibal said. “There’s a reason you made chief of detectives. You never let go of the important stuff, because you know that a lot of times these cases circle back on you.”
Rissik nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “Okay, that case sticks in my mind for a couple reasons. At first, I wasn’t even sure it was him. The ID was kind of difficult.”
“I can imagine. I hear he did a face plant off a roof.”
Rissik stopped to pull the restaurant door open. “The roof of a six-story office building. Splat. Like a bag of beef stew.”
Hannibal shuddered. “Colorful metaphor, Chief. Hey, is this where you want to eat? I thought we’d go to a restaurant.”
“Subway is a restaurant,” Rissik said. “It’s close and quick. And like I said, you can buy me a sandwich.” Turning away from Hannibal, he ordered roast beef and mayo on whole wheat. The counter girl was making it before he spoke. Hannibal figured he ate the same thing every time he walked in, which must have been often.
“OK, so he was hard to identify. How’d you know it was him?” Hannibal glanced at the menu and ordered the lunch special without really noticing what it was.
“His wallet was lying on the roof, next to a Tag Heuer Kirium Quartz that his wife identified as his.” They sat in a booth and both men glanced at the Porsche titanium watch on Hannibal’s wrist that was a Christmas gift from Cindy and at the more modest Esquire watch Rissik wore that was surely a present from his wife. Hannibal was the only one who was a little embarrassed.
“Leaving things like a watch and wallet behind is typical of suicides, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” Rissik said. “Or of a killer wanting to make his work look like a suicide.”
“So you traced him from ID in his wallet, and his wife ID’d the body,” Hannibal said, unwrapping his lunch. He thought it would be an extraordinary killer indeed who would leave a two-thousand-dollar watch behind.
“Right. His clothes and other effects allowed her to be pretty darned sure it was her husband. Besides, she said he had been threatening suicide for a while.”
“Really?” Hannibal took the first bite of his sandwich. He savored the flavor of the variety of meats and cheeses that together formed the taste he associated with “sub sandwich.” As soon as his mouth was empty, he asked, “Was he depressed? I thought his life was pretty good.”
“She said he was worried about all the debt he was in,” Rissik said, almost finished with his food. “And I guess he had some war injuries that bothered him.”
“So he talked about suicide, prepared like a suicide, and you haven’t mentioned any real evidence of foul play. Why a murder investigation?”
“You know how these things work, Jones,” Rissik said. He finished his food, folded the paper into a neat bundle, and shoved it into the bag. “If we rule suicide right away, that stops the investigation. And I’m sure you know that he had mob connections. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You think maybe he owed money to some gangster who had him taken out?”
