Rissik raised a finger, signaling caution. “Now don’t put words in my mouth. There was absolutely no evidence of foul play in that death. And believe me, I looked. Of course, Raisa insisted that she had no idea who was holding the marker on this big debt she kept hearing about. But who knows. If I wasn’t a cop, maybe she’d have told me more. If I wasn’t a cop, I’d sure ask her.”
“Subtle, Chief, real subtle. But you know, I might just take the hint.”
The people who live in Fairfax County, Virginia, think they deal with hateful traffic. Because he did most of his driving in the District, Hannibal knew better. The highway out of Fairfax, I-66, was well populated, but at least traffic was moving. It wasn’t until he hit the Key Bridge that driving turned to crawling. The last couple of miles were horrific, thanks to some very narrow streets that people still parked on. He had to fight his way through the rabbit’s warren of Georgetown to reach Mrs. Petrova’s house. He hoped that when he got there she would give him some of the answers he needed.
Navigating this way through a side street, Hannibal again spotted the brown Saturn. He figured Cochran must be on the job, spying on Gana just a couple of blocks away. Maybe he was on the side of the good guys after all. He was certainly dedicated if he was leaving his car on a Washington side street again and again.
“Parked in the exact same place,” Hannibal muttered to himself. “What are the odds?”
Then he thought about his own words. What were the odds? It seemed more likely that the car had not moved since the day before. Why would Cochran leave his car there?
Curiosity made Hannibal pull over and park in the nearest spot, almost a block away. As he walked toward Cochran’s car, a vague sense of unease grew inside him, matching the dark clouds above. When he reached the car, his feelings seemed to be confirmed. It was parked a couple of feet too close to the fire hydrant. Tickets slipped under the windshield wiper indicated that the car had been in the same place since the morning before. Hannibal tugged on the door handle and was surprised when it opened. No one would leave a car illegally parked for so long, not on purpose, and certainly not unlocked. Maybe something had happened to the snoop, something more than having his camera smashed.
Hannibal went back to his car. He still didn’t know who Cochran was, but he had his doubts that the man could be in the employ of Muslim terrorists. And if Gana was lying about that, then Cochran’s story might be true. He could be an inept private eye, in over his head. And that meant that he might actually know something useful. He might also be in serious danger, or even lying somewhere hurt.
But before searching the hospitals and morgues, Hannibal figured he’d see if Cochran was just nursing a minor injury in his hotel room. And since Cochran had commented that he was “stuck in the Ramada,” Hannibal figured he wouldn’t be too hard to find. He turned out to be registered at the second hotel Hannibal called, just outside the District in Silver Spring, Maryland.
Whatever information Raisa Petrova was holding, it would keep. Right then Hannibal thought that finding Ben Cochran might tell him more about Gana. He took the short drive up Georgia Avenue to the chosen Ramada Inn. A bored desk clerk with a serious acne problem gave him the room number. He knocked on the door, then stepped back to make sure he was visible through the little peephole. Feet tapped to the door on the other side, followed by a few seconds of silence. He heard the deadbolt turn, and the door opened in. He was surprised to find himself facing a buxom redhead.
“What can I do for you, handsome?”
13
“I’m sorry,” Hannibal said. “I was looking for Ben Cochran.”
“And you got his wife instead,” she replied, presenting her hand.
“Hannibal Jones,” he said, taking her hand. She shook firmly, like a man, and looked him in the eye as she did.
“You can call me Queenie. Come on in. How do you know Ben?”
The woman’s red hair went down to the roots, but it was up in the big-hair style that Hannibal hoped would some day go out of style even in the Deep South. Walking behind her, he could not help but notice her figure. The woman was heavy-chested and broad-hipped, but everything was in the right proportions. Her American flag t-shirt and jeans were just a tiny bit too tight, but that only accented her shape, which Hannibal would have described as robust. He thought that perhaps this was what happened to a woman if she quit pole-dancing cold turkey.
“I bumped into Ben because we were watching the same guy.”
“You’re shitting me,” Queenie said, slapping a pack of Camels against her index finger to make one of the cigarettes pop out. She captured it with her lips and slid it free of the pack.
“Nope. Same mark,” Hannibal said. “I was kind of hoping to put our heads together on this. You know, team up.”
“Well as you can see, Benny ain’t here.” Queenie never looked toward Hannibal for a light, just pulled out a pack of matches and lit her own cigarette.
“Maybe you can help. I just want to know why he’d want pictures of the man.”
“He’s just got this crazy idea he can blackmail Gana with some pictures,” she said, putting one red high heel up on the chair she was standing beside. “Like, do what I say or I’ll let the whole gang know where you are.”
“So he is on the run.”
“Better believe it,” Queenie said, shooting a narrow stream of smoke his way. “That’s what happens when you steal from your betters. The boss is pretty pissed.”
“Your boss?” Hannibal asked. He regretted the question as soon as he voiced it. Asking too many can make some people suspicious.
“Who did you say you were again?”
“Hannibal Jones.” He gave her a card as a sign of his legitimacy. “I’m a local private investigator. I don’t want to mess up Ben’s action, but it’s hard when I don’t know what the action is.”
“Ben didn’t tell you why he was there?”
“We didn’t have much of a chance to talk before Gana came out of the house after us,” Hannibal said.
“You kidding?” Queenie said, flicking her cigarette’s ash into a tray. “What did he do?”
“I took off before Gana caught up to Ben. I think he broke the camera though.”
“Damn,” she said, breathing smoke as she spoke. “That thing was expensive.”
“How does he know Gana anyway?”
“He don’t know him. I do.” Queenie took a long drag on her cigarette and started marching her spiked heels around the room. “This Dani Gana character and I worked together once. He had a sweet deal. Then one day he disappeared with some of the boss’ money. Very uncool. The boss wanted us to hunt him down but I figure there’s no percentage in turning him over to the boss. My thinking is he’ll be willing to trade the money for his freedom.”
“Ben didn’t seem to me the kind of guy who’d be up to blackmailing somebody like that,” Hannibal said, leaning on the back of the chair that still held the imprint of Queenie’s heel.
Queenie stopped pacing and looked at Hannibal over her shoulder. “You look like you’re up the challenge,” she said in a way that made Hannibal doubt she was talking about blackmail. “Maybe you could help us out.”
“Help you out how?”
“You’re a detective,” she said, as if that made everything obvious. “You just help us find the money and get it back, and we’ll give you a nice cut.”
Hannibal eased down onto the chair. “You’re all about the money, ain’t you? If I was you, I’d be more worried about Ben.”
“Why? What’s he done now?”
“I don’t really know,” Hannibal said. “But I do know his car is abandoned on a little side street. It’s been sitting there for two days.”
“Abandoned?” Queenie stared into Hannibal’s dark lenses and for the first time he thought he saw genuine concern in her eyes. “Where is it?”
“A few blocks from Gana’s place.”
