Then he saw her, sooner than expected. Despite the evening cool they were at one of the outdoor tables, talking to their waiter. Opposite her, Reggie sat in a purple suit and orange shirt. A starburst of light flashed off one of his diamond cufflinks.
Cindy was lovely as always, wrapped in a camel coat. Her skin was smooth teak. He thought she had added an auburn tint to her dark brown tresses and left it down, just touching her shoulders, feathered in front. High cheekbones accented her Cuban roots. Her black heels had to be more than two inches high, force-flexing her shapely calves. He had not seen this suit before. The navy skirt looked a couple of inches higher on her perfect thighs than her usual length. A single string of pearls around her neck was the perfect accent, echoing her perfect teeth as she smiled and chatted with a man who could be a professional athlete and had the kind of style that allowed him to pull off wearing a purple suit without effort.
Hannibal took in the whole scene in a few seconds as he rolled past, unnoticed.
She looked so damned happy.
Austin Camacho
Russian Roulette
32
The sun was just flashing in from the eastern edge of the horizon when Hannibal came within sight of his building and slowed to a brisk walk. The pain lancing through his right side told him that he had held his speed a little high that morning. His heart was drumming triplets in his chest and each inhalation was a dagger in his lungs, almost bringing tears to his eyes. His jogging suit dripped with his sweat, but the early morning breeze cooled him quickly after he unzipped his top.
He had pushed himself for five miles at a pretty strong pace, but he could not outrun his self-loathing for the night before. He dragged himself up the sandstone steps into his building and managed to get back into his apartment without having to say hello to anyone. That was his first success feeling of the day.
During the time he stripped, showered, and ate two hardboiled eggs, Hannibal thought only about Cindy, sitting at an outdoor cafe table, unaware of his presence. He wondered why he had needed to see that sight, and how he could have just kept driving, never stopping to speak to her.
He wondered, but he knew.
Then he got dressed. He pulled on a white cotton dress shirt, not significantly different from the others hanging in his closet except that it had French cuffs and a designer label and that it was a gift from Cindy. He had said thank you at the time, then since he had no idea who or what an Ermenegildo Zegna was, he had looked it up online. He still didn’t understand what could make a white cotton shirt worth $235. He wore the shirt only because it made him feel closer to her.
While putting his cuff links into place he considered where he would go that day. By the time he was tying his tie, his mind was entirely on the business at hand. This was the day he expected to wrap up the whole mob business that had him going in circles like a roulette wheel, chasing a stolen fortune.
Hannibal’s day would start with phone calls. Once he was dressed, he went across the hall to make them. There was nothing wrong with his home phone. He just liked to make business calls from his desk. His first important call was to Rissik’s office. He pushed the speed dial button, set the phone on speaker, and reached for the coffee beans overhead.
“You’re up early,” was Rissik’s first comment.
“Just couldn’t wait to hear your voice, Chief. Now, what’s this about Barek’s mother?”
“She wants to see you,” Rissik said. “Maryland law couldn’t answer her questions, so they put her on to me. I didn’t want to disappoint an important citizen of one of our allies, so naturally I told her I knew the ace detective who had been following her son’s movements.”
“Thanks,” Hannibal said, pouring water from a carafe into the coffeepot. “That will probably get me killed.”
“Actually, she’d like to find out all she can about her little Hamed’s American adventures, and she’ll be stuck in the Moroccan embassy all day waiting for the murder victim formerly known as Dani Gana to be driven down to Washington from Baltimore. When I didn’t hear from you last night I took the liberty of making you an appointment. What the hell is that noise?”
“Sorry,” Hannibal said. “Grinding the beans. Someday you’re going to have to come over here and get a decent cup of coffee. Now, you were saying about an appointment?”
“You are to meet with Mrs. Fatima Barek at the Moroccan embassy at ten a.m. And don’t be late. She’s pretty important people over there.”
“Fatima? Really? Like the seven veils?”
“Hey, do I make fun of your name?” Rissik asked. “I could, you know.”
“Good point,” Hannibal said, filling a mug and pausing to inhale the sweet, rich aroma he loved. “I’ll be there.”
After chatting with Rissik, Hannibal carried his mug around to his desk where he settled back into his chair. He wasn’t sure why the black leather felt different that day; softer, somehow. Then he realized what was different. It was really his again. Smiling, he punched buttons to ring the number left in his other message.
“Dr. Van Buren? This is Hannibal Jones. Is this a good time to talk?”
“Fine,” Van Buren answered. “But it’s just Professor Van Buren for now, or better yet, Eric. In a couple months I’ll finish my doctorate and you can talk to me like I’m an old man.”
“Noted,” Hannibal said, pulling out a note pad and pen. “Eric, then. I appreciate you getting back to me.”
“I had to, after hearing from an old colleague,” Van Buren said. “Dr. Krada said he knows you too.”
“Krada?” Hannibal sipped again, savoring the taste as he organized his thoughts. “Interesting. Why was he in contact with you?”
“Oh, he called about a student we had in common. You guessed it-Hamed Barek, who apparently went to Howard under a different name.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said, thinking Krada wanted to warn his pupil about the crowd of people searching for him. “Did you have something to tell me about him?”
“Actually, we discussed the boy’s history somewhat. That got me looking at his file and remembering old conversations. I know you were trying to trace him back to his roots, as it were, and they are indeed in Algeria.”
“Hold on,” Hannibal said, jotting notes. “I have information that he really is from Morocco.”
“I meant his family,” Eric said. “Barek’s grandfather was an educated, well-to-do businessman in Algeria. He had position and status, things that mean a lot in that part of the world. But his business interests apparently took him to Morocco where he ultimately went broke.”
“I see,” Hannibal said, “But I’m sure Dr. Krada was more interested in where his old student is now. I’m rather surprised he found you.”
Eric’s laughter crackled through the static of a bad connection. “Nothing mysterious there, Jones. I knew Dr. Krada when he was here at UVA. In fact, I was one of his students.”
This news came as an unexpected treat, cheering Hannibal like the welcoming aroma of his coffee. “You don’t say. Tell me, did he have parties for his students down there like he does up here?”
“You bet. And after he moved to Howard I used to drive up there for them. In fact, I was there the night Hamed Barek was introduced to the Russian girl, Vicki Petrova. He fell for her that first night. Everybody could see that.”
“You don’t say.” Hannibal snugged back into the warm leather, notebook in hand. “And what made Krada move up to Howard? I doubt it was more money, since it’s kind of a smaller school.”
“Hardly for the money.” Eric paused and Hannibal waited through the silence. Interruptions were bad for people’s memories. Finally, Eric asked, “Have you met Mrs. Krada?”
