Hannibal crossed his legs. “So you just want me to do a background investigation on this fellow. And no one is paying you to kill him?”
“No.”
“Then what makes him a person of interest for you?”
“His relationship with Viktoriya Petrova.”
Hannibal took his time standing up in order to avoid any threatening movement. He found his curiosity piqued despite himself, and felt confident that he was in no real danger as long as he didn’t get too close to Ivanovich.
“There’s a woman,” Hannibal said. “That means there’s a story. How about some coffee?”
Ivanovich nodded, his lips pressed together. He looked uncomfortable, maybe more so than Hannibal. After all, Hannibal had had guns pointed at him plenty of times before. But Ivanovich looked like a man who had rarely asked anyone for help and didn’t like doing it at all.
Hannibal took the coffee carafe from the machine on the table beside his desk and headed toward the kitchen at the other end of the five-room apartment that served as his office. Its rooms formed one long space unless the pocket doors set in the walls were pulled together to separate them. Ivanovich followed. As Hannibal filled the carafe, he asked, “You have a relationship with this girl?”
“Viktoriya and I have a long history.”
Ivanovich stood, stiff as a wooden soldier, in the doorway to the kitchen. He held his gun close to his ribs, pointed at Hannibal’s chest. Once the carafe was full, Hannibal turned to face him. “What has the girl to do with the man whose picture you showed me?”
“They are engaged to be married.”
Hannibal nodded and headed back through the apartment, passing the bed in the room beside the kitchen. “So why aren’t you with her now?”
“There are times when one must lay low,” Ivanovich answered, stepping around the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling in the middle room. “This is one of those times.”
They continued past the small table in what Hannibal sometimes referred to as his conference room and into his office. He poured the water into his coffee maker, wondering how close the police might be to finding Ivanovich.
“Well, you must have been watching this guy for a while to be able to get that picture of him,” Hannibal said.
“Yes,” Ivanovich said, pulling an airtight canister from a shelf behind Hannibal and handing it to him. “I was simply observing him, but as it turned out the FBI was watching him also. I was spotted but escaped before the agent could call in backup.”
Hannibal poured beans into the grinder side of his coffee maker. It was a custom blend of Kenyan, Colombian, and Guatemalan coffees prepared for him by The Coffee Mill in Rehoboth Beach. It was much better than his captor deserved. He hated the fact that the proposed case was beginning to interest him.
“So the FBI is also interested in this Gana,” Hannibal said over the whine of the grinder. “Is he Russian mob too?”
Ivanovich paused at the same moment Hannibal did to enjoy the fresh aroma that the grinder ripped from the beans. Then he said, “I do not know. But Viktoriya’s father was, before he died. Nikita is no longer there to protect or advise her. She lives with her mother, Raisa, now. She seemed secure there until this Gana appeared in the city two months ago and leased Raisa’s second home.”
“Also in the District?”
“Yes. Both are in Woodley Park.”
“Nice,” Hannibal said, pouring his coffee. “He must have plenty of cash to be staying up there. It sounds like your Viktoriya will be well taken care of.” He looked at Ivanovich who nodded with a thin smile, so Hannibal poured a second cup.
“Perhaps.” Ivanovich accepted the cup and returned to Hannibal’s desk chair. “But I fear he may have come by the money dishonestly. If that is true, he could have worse enemies than the FBI. And if someone is out there who wants to hurt this man, Viktoriya could be hurt in the process. I will not allow her to be put at risk.”
Hannibal stood at his desk, considering this enigmatic assassin and his request. Ivanovich was asking Hannibal to take a case he was sure he would accept from a different client and maybe from this man if they had not had this entire conversation at gunpoint.
“You really love her, don’t you?”
“How could that matter to your investigation?”
“It has to do with your motives,” Hannibal said. “You must be desperate to be here, talking to a black detective because you figure I can help you find out the truth about a rich African foreigner. But why would I take your case? Do you really think you can force me to investigate at gunpoint? I could walk out that door and just keep going. Or, I could call the cops and let them come in here and yank you out. Why on earth would I invest any of my time and energy into helping you stalk this girl who doesn’t appear to need help or to be interested in you at all?”
Ivanovich’s voice deepened and became a bit harder, as if he wanted to be very sure that Hannibal understood him clearly.
“Because, my arrogant friend, I have very competent associates watching Miss Cintia Santiago, associate at Baylor, Truman, and Ray and daughter of Reynaldo Santiago who lives upstairs from you. My associates are invisible, obedient, and deadly. If you fail to find the answers I need about Dani Gana, your beloved Cintia Santiago will die.”
2
Aleksandr Ivanovich’s words had echoed in Hannibal’s mind all night like a continuous tape loop. The loop continued to play in his head the next morning as he gathered Eddie Miller from his apartment just before dawn. Driving his black Volvo S60 downtown, Hannibal replayed every ugly word Ivanovich had said to him. The jarring statement that at least two trusted men were watching Cindy Santiago at all times. The declaration that her telephones were tapped and that Ivanovich could even tap into her BlackBerry messages. The warning that any contact with her would endanger her and her coworkers.
He didn’t need to be told that letting any of his friends or neighbors know what was going on would put them at risk. All the men who lived upstairs had helped him on cases before. Sarge, Quaker, and Virgil were always up for anything but none of them would be able to deal with a professional killer like Ivanovich. And none of them could keep a secret from the fourth man who shared the building, Cindy’s father. With his Cuban temper, Ray Santiago would likely go racing right into the assassin’s sights.
Worse, a firefight in the building would involve little Monte, the boy Hannibal mentored, and possibly his grandmother. Mother Washington would try to talk the killer out of the house, believing that prayer can solve any problem. Maybe she was right, but he would not risk their lives. This problem he would have to deal with on his own.
All this occupied one compartment of his brain as he drove the car he called the Black Beauty into the parking garage under the building that housed the law offices of Baylor, Truman, and Ray. He stepped out of the car and looked around for a second before signaling Miller that it was safe to get out.
“I thought we were going to the courthouse,” Miller said, looking uncomfortable in a suit that Hannibal suspected only left the closet for weddings or an Easter church visit.
“You’ll be safe here until court time,” Hannibal said, keeping his eyes moving as he escorted Miller to the elevator.
“I don’t think anybody’s going to bother me this close to the trial,” Miller said.
Hannibal didn’t think so either. He was watching for other men. But it seemed he had guessed right. Cindy would head straight for the courthouse this morning and, with limited resources, Ivanovich’s people would be with
