what place?
“These all appear to be taken in the same swanky club. Where are they?”
“The Russia House, up on Connecticut Avenue. The best bar and restaurant in the city if you happen to be Russian.”
“And I see there is gambling too.”
“Well, there are private rooms.” Ivanovich said, turning a page. “If they know you, you can always get a room for your group. This is where you go to play preference. See? Here. It is the game for serious card players in Russia.”
“Whoa!” Hannibal sprang to his feet, and regretted it immediately. He felt dizzy for a moment, but focused on the new photo to steady himself. “Who is that guy? The one in the middle of the table.”
“I do not know him.”
“Everybody else sure does,” Hannibal said. “Dr. Sidorov, Petrova, and isn’t that Gana standing behind him? I thought he was new to the area.”
“He left Washington years ago,” Ivanovich said. “I never expected him to return.”
Hannibal’s index finger circled the photo. “Look at that. Sidorov, Gana, Petrova, they’re all looking at that guy in the middle.”
“They must all be friends,” Ivanovich said. “I admit I never looked that closely at this one but, he almost looks like the leader of the pack here.”
“Yeah, or at least the center of attention.” Hannibal said, tapping the picture with his fingertips. “And that woman practically on his lap, she’s clearly more than a friend.”
“The blonde?” Ivanovich asked.
“Yeah, but she’s a redhead these days. You can’t miss that body. That girl is Queenie Cochran.”
15
Finding a parking place anywhere near the Russia House was a challenge. The yellow marble edifice sat just north of Dupont Circle, on the corner where Florida Avenue crossed Connecticut. That intersection was surrounded by triangular and trapezoidal blocks formed by streets crossing at awkward and bizarre angles. Parking was even more difficult for a man whose head was pounding due to a vicious hangover. Still, walking toward the stone monolithic that housed the Russia House, Hannibal considered the conversation that had led him there to be even more challenging. He had made the call from his office, with Ivanovich looking on.
“Well, good morning,” Raisa Petrova had said. “You are my very first caller of the day. And who might you be?”
“It’s Hannibal Jones, Mrs. Petrova.”
“Oh.” Her voice dropped a full octave. “Well, have you called to apologize?”
“Excuse me?”
“I thought maybe you had come to your senses. Have you finished cross-examining my son-in-law?”
“Ma’am, I spoke to Mr. Gana and we are not in conflict over anything,” Hannibal said in his most placating voice. “I’m sorry if I upset you, but now I’m authorized to tell you what this is all about.”
“Oh, so there’s more to the story?”
As he expected, the hint of a mystery got her in a listening mood. “Yes ma’am. The truth is, we’re looking into the circumstances of your husband’s death. I didn’t tell you right away because I didn’t want to get your hopes up about anything. Naturally, we had to consider every possibility. Now we’re trying to gather more background information.”
“I’m not sure I can tell you much.” He could hear her clinking the teapot against her glass and the sound of liquid pouring.
“I do understand, ma’am,” Hannibal said, trying to be gentle. “We don’t want to inconvenience you any further. But I would like to speak with Dr. Sidorov. If you could help me contact him, that would be a huge help.”
“Yakov doesn’t know any more than I do,” Raisa said.
“I understand he knew a great deal about your husband’s health,” Hannibal said in a soft, understanding tone. “He may be able to help us understand why, well, why things happened the way they did.”
Raisa took a deep breath and spent five or six seconds letting it out. “Yes, he may be able to help you with that. But I don’t know when he will be home. He spends a lot of time at that club. The lounge, he calls it.”
“Club?” Hannibal glanced at Ivanovich. “Do you mean the Russia House?”
“Why, yes,” Raisa said, but he heard the surprise in her voice. “In fact, he’s picking me up in a few minutes to go over there.”
“I see,” Hannibal said, not seeing at all. “But the restaurant isn’t open for any meal but dinner.”
Raisa almost snorted in skepticism. “That is for the tourists. If you know the right people, you go as part of a private party. Yakov will spend most of the day there, playing his card games. For some, it is like a drug. It sucked away my Nikita’s soul and now it has Yakov’s as well.”
“Maybe I could meet him there.”
“Perhaps,” Raisa said, “if you were expected.”
“Your help would be very much appreciated, ma’am.”
When Hannibal hung up, Ivanovich asked, “You still think he committed suicide?”
“Not now,” Hannibal said. “But she sure wants me to. That’s the only reason she’s pointing me to Sidorov, so he can tell me how much pain Nikita was in. But that’s OK, as long as I get to question him under friendly circumstances.”
“Why Sidorov?”
“Well, he seems to know all the players and might know something about your man Gana’s past.”
“But why not go back to the mystery woman, this Queenie? She already knows you.”
Hannibal shook his head. Everyone’s a detective, he thought. “Well, let’s see. She’s got her husband following Gana. Apparently, there’s a pile of money in the balance. And she’s working hard to disguise her Russian background. Everything about this broad tells me she’ll lie to me about anything. I think I’m more likely to get the truth out of the doc.”
All of that flew back through Hannibal’s mind as he knocked on the door a few minutes after one o’clock. Dressed in his regulation black suit, wearing his Oakley sunglasses and black leather gloves, Hannibal was accustomed to being treated like some snooping government official. When the stocky man wearing an apron around his waist opened the door with an irritated expression on his face, Hannibal knew this time would be different.
“Didn’t anyone tell you to use the back entrance?”
“I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else,” Hannibal said, presenting his card. “I’m here to join Dr. Sidorov’s game. I believe Mrs. Petrova told you to expect me.”
The man at the door at least had the grace to blush as he swung the door wide. “I am very sorry. Simple mistake. Please come in and follow me.”
Hannibal’s guide led him through the lounge, which was as opulent as Ivanovich’s photos had suggested. The red wall covering was what he thought Cindy called silk damask, and Russian paintings were displayed just far enough apart to not be too showy.
A flight of narrow stairs brought them to a more private but no less elegant room. Hannibal and his guide stopped in front of the elaborate oak bar that dominated one end of the room. The furniture was ornate, and in a style Hannibal couldn’t name. Someone had positioned blocks of mitered green marble around the room with great care. Potted palm trees sat between cozy couches and low coffee tables. The three card tables looked too smooth and shiny to insult by sliding playing cards over them, but the people seated around them didn’t seem to mind.
Each table held four players, all of whom looked across at their partners while they played but hardly glanced at their opponents. A thin cloud of smoke hung over their heads, raised by what Hannibal’s nose told him were
