Blood and Bone (12 page)

At least until Cindy walked in. As expected, she still wore her business suit: a navy skirt a bit shy of knee length, a white blouse under a conservative jacket, and heels. He did not expect her to still be wearing her business smile. A raincoat hung from her arm like a lifeless body. She walked directly to his table but did not sit down. In fact, she hardly looked down.

“Shall we go?” She handed him the car key and turned toward the door in one smooth motion. “Where's Daddy?”

“Staking out a suspect until the cops get there,” he said, standing as quickly as he could. “I took a cab here.” He hastened to catch up but did not come even with her until they reached his car. Then his attention was diverted.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, walking slowly around his car in disbelief. The lower half of the Volvo looked like the car was used in a four wheel drive mud bogging contest. Its front left quarter panel was creased almost its entire length. The paint was
scratched in five or six places. And the left outside rear view mirror was missing.

Then he opened the door. His white leather upholstery was caked with mud, with dried blood added in the front. The carpets were destroyed. Coffee rings formed the Olympics symbol on his dashboard.

“Can I get in?” Cindy asked. He pushed the button unlocking the other doors, then watched as she spread her coat on the seat to protect her clothes and sat down. Hannibal left his door standing open and went to the trunk. Raised in Germany, he carried a warning triangle, a first aid kit, flares and a flashlight along with his spare tire. From his supplies he plucked his emergency blanket which he carried to the front and spread over his seat. Then he dropped heavily into the seat, slamming his door much harder than necessary. Having his car invaded and mistreated this way made him feel violated. But as he pushed the key into the ignition, he realized he was letting his frustration and anger about an automobile cover up a potentially more serious problem. He leaned back, took a deep breath, and focused his mind.

“I think we need to talk,” he said. “Let's find a nice place to get something to eat.”

“Ate on the way.”

“Cindy,” he said, looking straight ahead, “I'll need your legal expertise in a few minutes, but you and me is more important than any case. Tell me what's wrong.”

“You've got business to take care of,” she said, not looking at him. “Can't we talk about it later?”

Hannibal started the car and turned on the air conditioning. The soft, cool breeze brought his mind
into sharp focus. He released the emergency brake. He stepped on the brake pedal and pushed the shifting lever into first. Then he reversed the process, and yanked the emergency brake back on.

“No,” he said, turning to face her. “I need to settle this now. Tell me what's going on.”

“You tell me what's going on,” Cindy snapped. “What's up with us? Who's the bimbo?”

Hannibal's mouth fell open. He first thought of Ginger Lerner, but Cindy had no way to know about her. No one would consider Daisy Sonneville a bimbo. He knew nothing of Angela Briggs' background. He gave up. “What bimbo?”

“What bimbo?” If words had solid substance, Cindy's would have been venom dripping from her mouth. “That bimbo you got stashed at the crib. She looks like a whore but at least she's neat. I found her cleaning up for you after breakfast. Did she make the bed too?”

“Quit shouting at me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Besides, you sound stupid when you try to talk street talk. You must mean Jewel. She's a client. Did you talk to Sarge?”

Cindy's eyes blazed. “Why in hell would I talk to Sarge? He got your alibi set up?” Next she said something in Spanish he could not follow.

“Speak English, girl,” he said, putting the Volvo back into gear and pulling out. He crossed the Baltimore beltway headed into the suburbs, where trees cast long shadows across the street to remind him it was getting late. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Sarge is protecting Jewel. She's staying in the office rooms for a few days.”

After venting her initial anger, Cindy lapsed into a moody sulking mode. “She looks like a whore. And
she was in your kitchen this morning, cleaning up your breakfast.”

“She is a whore,” Hannibal said. “At least she was until Saturday night when I told her pimp she quit. That's why she hired me, to get her out of the business. And yes, she came over and made breakfast this morning. But that's all we shared. Burnt bacon and some runny eggs.”

“Saturday? She's been there since Saturday?” Cindy looked around at the middle class neighborhood they had coasted into as a new thought occurred to her. “She was there while you were with me Sunday night.”

“I was with you,” Hannibal said. “What does that tell you?”

“But, Hannibal,” Cindy said in a softer tone, “why didn't you tell me?”

He pulled to a stop at the curb on a neat, well paved street. The house across the street had a small but well kept lawn lined with carefully trimmed hedges. Single family, brick with a bay window in front. Flowers lined the front wall and a junior basketball hoop stood guard over the driveway. Hannibal said, “I don't know” into his side window, but he was not sure Cindy heard him.

“That's where we're going and I'm not sure of my legal footing here.”

“Lay it out for me,” Cindy said, but her tone too was softer.

“Remember you sent me to tell Ike Paton's ex the news?” he asked. “Well, she lives here. I think she knows some things about the Mortimer case, maybe even had a hand in Jacob's death. But I might ask questions I don't have the right to ask, or I might put myself or my clients in a position to be sued.”

“I'll make sure that doesn't happen,” Cindy said. Then she reached for his hand. “Regardless of the other thing, thanks for making me part of this. I wanted to help Kyle somehow.”

“Listen,” Hannibal said, squeezing her hand tight, “I'm not good at this relationship thing, all right. Never have been. But I don't want to screw this one up.”

“Let's talk more after we get the business done.”

The entire neighborhood smelled like it was preparing to barbecue when Hannibal and Cindy crossed the street. The driveway was empty, which was good. Hannibal hoped to finish their business there before he had to explain to another person. He rang the doorbell and within a minute, it swung in. A young girl with cornrowed hair stared up at them with curiosity, but no fear.

“Who you?”

“Is your mom home?” Hannibal asked. Before he finished the sentence, Daisy Sonneville was at the door, dressed as she was in the morning, but covered by an apron. Her eyes grew to silver dollars, but she curled her lips in and swallowed her terror.

“Rose, go over to Mrs. Cole's house and get your homework started so you'll be done when Daddy gets home,” she said in a surprisingly calm voice. The girl moved with a discipline seldom seen today. When she was gone, Daisy asked, “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk, Mrs. Sonneville,” Hannibal said. “Please.”

Daisy looked at Cindy, then up and down the block as if someone might be watching. Then she waved them in. Once inside, she retreated to the kitchen. The place, Hannibal guessed, she felt safest. It was spotless, and his nose told him there was a roast in
the oven. This woman was working hard at living the dream and leaving behind the very things he was forcing back into her life. She leaned against the sink as if she might never move. With a glance at Cindy, he pulled out a photograph.

“This is Cindy Santiago, Mrs. Sonneville,” Hannibal began. “She's an attorney, here to make sure I don't abuse your rights or anything. Please take a look at this picture.” She did so, then pulled away.

“Who's he?”

“Please, ma'am,” Hannibal said with a tired smile. “A reliable witness tells me you knew this man very well. His name is Jacob Mortimer, but you knew him as Bobby Newton.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You worked for him,” Hannibal persisted, adding power to his voice. “For a while you lived with him. You took care of his baby, right there in that apartment in Edmundson Village. First floor. He was working at the Moonglow.”

Each sentence was a hammer blow to Daisy, making her head sag another inch, until she finally said, “All right. I recognized the picture. So what?”

“So what?” Daisy was directly in front of him, with only the kitchen island separating them. Hannibal leaned forward, placing both hands on the island. “I just found that man, or what's left of him, buried in the cellar of that building he lived in.”

Somehow, Daisy's eyes grew even wider. “What's that got to do with me?”

“That's what I want to know,” Hannibal said.

Cindy stepped to one side, separating herself from Hannibal. “If you don't tell us what you know, Mrs. Sonneville, you could be accused of being an accessory to a murder.”

“But I don't know anything,” Daisy said, almost in tears.

“You do,” Hannibal snapped, slamming a fist down on the island. “Tell me!”

“What the hell is this?” The voice belonged to a short, well dressed man with close cropped hair and a stern expression. He stood behind Hannibal in the adjoining living room, his hands curled into menacing fists.

“Oh, Phil, they think I…” is all Daisy could get out before choking on a sob.

“What are you accusing my wife of?” Phil Sonneville asked through clenched teeth. “You cops? What makes you think you can come busting in here?” His body language said he was well beyond the listening stage. Hannibal dropped his hands but focused his attention entirely on Phil.

“We're not the police, Mister Sonneville,” Cindy said in a soothing voice. “We just came here to ask for help. Years ago, your wife was involved in…”

“My wife's not involved in anything,” Phil shouted. He swung, but Hannibal dodged the fist and blocked the follow-on left. Phil's face was wide open and Hannibal cocked a fist for it.

“Hannibal, don't,” Cindy said, and in his moment of hesitation Phil drove a right into his midsection. Air blew out of Hannibal's mouth, but his hands went up in time to deflect two more punches. Finally he lunged forward, hooking Phil's left arm with his own left. His right hand grabbed Phil's collar. After spinning around behind the smaller man, Hannibal drove him forward, bulldogging him to the carpet. He heard something slide off the coffee table and shatter on the floor. Daisy's scream was sharper, shriller than any breaking glass.

“Stop!” Daisy shouted. “Oh God, stop it, please. Let him go. I'll tell you. I'll tell you.” Then her tears broke loose in earnest and her voice dropped to a deep moan. “I can't carry this guilt anymore.”

Phil stopped struggling and Hannibal released him. Both men were watching Daisy in the kitchen, her small fists pressed into her eyes. Cindy reached to hold her, but she pushed away.

Phil went to stand beside his wife and she hid her face in his shoulder. Her sobs were buried in his suit coat. Hannibal could smell the roast burning, but no one seemed to care. His stomach knotted at the thought of causing a woman such pain. When Daisy raised her face, she was no longer sobbing, but water still flowed freely from her eyes.

“I don't know how you found me, Mister Jones,” she said in her precise voice, “but you were right to. Bobby and Barbie were good to me and in return I killed them.”

Cindy looked at Phil but spoke to Daisy. “I think you should have an attorney of your own present, Mrs. Sonneville.”

“This is all a mistake,” Phil said. “My wife could never kill anyone.”

But as Phil tried to look into his wife's eyes, she backed away from him until she was wedged in a corner, in front of her microwave oven. She was standing straighter, as if a tangible weight was lifted from her. Slowly her shoulders came into the proud position they occupied when Hannibal met her.

“Phil, I never told you any of this,” she began, as if Hannibal and Cindy did not exist. “Before I met you, I worked for Bobby Newton and his girl, Barbie Robinson. It was the last time I was separated from my first husband and I was kind of down on my luck. They took me in and I stayed in their spare room. They had money, some rare coins Bobby was trading slowly, one at a time, when he needed cash. I helped Barbie get around, because she was pregnant. When she had the baby, I took care of her so Barbie could get out.”

Daisy's story had hit a bump, and she could not drive over it. Cindy said, “You had a weakness for your husband, didn't you? I know what that's like.”

Cindy's words shook more tears and the rest of the story loose. “Pat came one day and took me to his place up in Jersey. When I asked about Bobby and Barbie, tried to visit them, he told me they moved away, but I never really believed it. It took me a long time to leave him for good.”

“Well, you're not responsible for what might have happened after you left,” Cindy said.

“Don't you see?” Daisy held her arms wide, palms out, ready for crucifixion. “I told Pat about the coins and the money Bobby had. I just know he told his friend Killer and he went after them. He'd murdered people before. Everybody knew it.”

“Killer?” Hannibal asked. “Killer Nilson? Big guy, like six foot five?”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him in various stages of shock. He seemed to have the floor, so he decided to use it. “From what I've heard, Mrs. Sonneville, this guy didn't need much provocation to do somebody in. And Bobby Newton led a pretty public life as a singer. It was only a matter of time before he attracted the attention of a Killer Nilson, or somebody like that.”

Daisy looked hopefully at Hannibal, but she did not look convinced. Phil offered support and, in a moment Hannibal knew he would find funny later, reached over to turn off the oven. Daisy did not quite smile, but the action brought a cool blast of reality to the scene. Hannibal turned to Cindy, thinking she might have the power to relax the other couple.