“That top name is the guy in front. Check the usual databases and see what we can find on him. The next two names both belong to the guy in back. Fax his photograph and the names to these two embassies and see if anybody can tell us for sure who he is and where he came from. Then send his face and names to the University of Virginia registrar and see if they can find me a professor who had this guy in class. He’d have been a history major. That’s it. Any questions?”
“No sir. I’m good,” she said.
Gert did an almost military about-face and hurried off to complete her assignment. Hannibal’s eyes tracked her out the door, but he said nothing. When he turned back, Rissik raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if asking if Hannibal had a question. He did, but he would not ask anything about Gert.
“So, do we know anything about Raisa’s murder? Forensic evidence maybe, or a substantial clue?”
“Not much you could work with,” Rissik said, “but there was one point of interest. The murder weapon was unusual.”
“Really?” Hannibal said. “I figured a small caliber automatic, like a. 22.”
Rissik shook his head. “Even smaller and faster. Our guys say it was a. 17-caliber bullet that poked that hole in Mrs. Petrova.”
“Seventeen?” Hannibal slid to the edge of his chair. “That’s mostly a rifle round, but this was done in the house at handgun range. I think Ruger chambers an automatic for that caliber. And I think Smith and Wesson has a revolver, but these guns are for popping squirrels or target matches, not murders. Unless…I guess a head shot would do the job.”
“Yeah these things would poke through the skull but probably not exit,” Rissik said. “Make a hell of a mess rattling around in there too. Really quite logical for in-city assassinations.”
Hannibal nodded. “Yeah, except in this case the shooter went for center mass.”
“That tells me this perp didn’t know what he was doing,” Rissik said.
“And that’s part of what makes me want to reject the whole mob murder scenario. Besides, there are plenty of people who could have personal motivations for her death.”
Rissik’s intercom buzzed. “Sir, I have a Dr. Van Buren on the line. He’s head of the history department, University of Virginia.”
“Put him through,” Rissik said. “I’ll leave it on speaker for my guest.” After hearing the right set of clicks Rissik said hello and introduced himself.
“This is Eric Van Buren,” the tiny speaker said. “I am very short on time, Detective, but I understand you need information about a former student of mine in relation to an investigation?”
“Yes,” Rissik said, “I appreciate you calling back so fast.”
“The dean kind of encouraged my cooperation,” Van Buren said.
“Yes, well I’ll try to keep this brief. I hope the photo we faxed you is clear. We’re having a little difficulty finding background on this man because he has apparently changed his name and personal history. Did you know him as Dani Gana from Algerian, or Gartee Roberts from Liberia?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Van Buren said, and Hannibal sat forward on his chair. “I’d have to say neither. I remember this young man; he was an excellent student. But I knew him as Hamed Barek and he had come to this country from Morocco.”
26
Orson Rissik let several seconds of silence pass after he disconnected the telephone call. Hannibal wondered if their thoughts were the same. He was considering that 97 percent of all crimes had simple solutions. They were acts of passion or greed, generally committed on impulse without much thought or planning. Occasionally one would come along that showed some cunning on the part of the perpetrator, a professional criminal who thought he had figured a way to beat the system. And then there was that one case in a hundred that was genuinely convoluted, usually because one evil person had tried to outsmart another evil person and had somehow ended up involving a third. This was beginning to look like one of those.
The intercom buzzed again, shaking them both out of their wandering thoughts. This time Rissik picked up the handset and held it to his ear. Hannibal smiled. If it was unrelated police business, he didn’t really want to know anyway. But when Rissik hung up and stared at him he figured the news was connected to their shared case.
“Our luck is turning, Jones,” Rissik said. “We might have a lead on the Tolstaya girl.”
“You found Queenie?”
“No, and we never would if that was all the name we had,” Rissik said. “But after you gave us Renata Tolstaya we had something solid to chase. Her maiden name turns out to be Mikhailov, she is from DC, and her mother still lives in the area. We even have an address.”
Hannibal slid to the edge of his seat. “You know her daughter would run home if she had nowhere else to go. Mom’s seen her for sure. You bringing her in?”
“I don’t think so.” Rissik shook his head. “There’s a minor record, and hints of more mob connections. But they’re just hints, and we got nothing we could charge her with. Besides, she’s part of a culture that tends to be pretty uncomfortable with authority figures, you know? Honestly, I don’t think she’ll talk. At least, not to a cop.”
He left the comment hanging in the air until Hannibal rose to the bait. “Sure, Chief, I’ll be glad to help out. Let’s ride over there and see what the lady might be willing to share.”
Rissik was not the kind of man to talk when talk wasn’t necessary. That’s why Hannibal was following the Honda Civic for a few minutes before he realized that Rissik wasn’t headed toward the District, and a few more before he knew they were Maryland bound. They drove north on I-95 and in a little more than an hour they pulled up in front of an unimpressive apartment building in Baltimore.
Hannibal thought that Baltimore had an even larger African American population than The District, but there were pockets of resistance. They parked in one, a little area surrounding the Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Church around the corner on East Fairmount Avenue. It was a street of older brick buildings with big windows and narrow stoops. Black iron fences stood guard in front of the houses, the kind with spearhead points on top. A hand pulled a curtain aside to watch him when he walked up to Rissik’s car. Rissik rolled down his window. Hannibal leaned on the roof of the Civic.
“You didn’t say she lived in Baltimore.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“So did you clear this with your Baltimore counterparts?”
“Clear what?” Rissik asked. “I’m not even here. You’re pursuing your own investigation, aren’t you?”
Hannibal nodded. “Yeah, I guess I’m on my own. But if I turn up any good leads that could point to Viktoriya’s whereabouts…”
“You can count on full police support,” Rissik said. “She’s a material witness who might be able to shed light on three murders and one serious assault. Now go do what you need to do.”
As he walked up the steps to the front door, Hannibal was not sure what that was. Should he offer to help this woman’s daughter? Threaten her with legal action? Was this to be an interrogation? Or would he gain more with sympathy and a soft tone?
The woman who responded to his knock nearly gave him a jolt of deja vu. In the time it took her to ask, “Can I help you?” the feeling changed to a peek into Renata Tolstaya’s future. This woman’s hair was the same fiery red, except that the quarter inch closest to her scalp was mousy brown. The cobwebs spreading from the corners of her eyes told her apparent age, as did her slightly stooped posture. Her lipstick matched her hair but was uneven on her lower lip. She had the same robust figure as her daughter, but while her waist was only a little thicker her bust and hips had swelled to almost cartoon proportions. In a housecoat and mule slippers she was surely everything Queenie feared growing into.
“Mrs. Mikhailov?” he asked, not feeling right using her first name. “My name is Hannibal Jones and I’m here trying to help your daughter, Renata.”
“Renata? Is she all right?” Mrs. Mikhailov’s eyes flared with fear, then settled back into their natural
