Blood and Bone (26 page)

Hannibal would call the furnishings luxurious. The love seat, the easy chair, the coffee service on its own table, everything except perhaps the huge desk belonged in some rich man's study. Hannibal expected to see trophy animal heads on the dark paneled walls instead of the framed portraits of black leaders hanging there.

Lippincott's gaze eventually fell on Rissik who was too close to ignore for long. “And just who are you supposed to be?”

“Who I am is Orson Rissik, chief of detectives in the Fairfax police department,” Rissik said, brandishing his shield, then putting it away. “I'm the guy these two came to with a problem earlier today. A problem that relates to a murder investigation I'm
running. Who I'm supposed to be is the guy who questions Abigail Nieswand about the circumstances of that murder, since I have reason to believe she may have seen or heard something and could have material information.”

Lippincott leaned forward, his fists on the desk supporting him. “I see. They've brought you here to intimidate me. They probably think that after the day I've had, one of the worst in my life, I'll just buckle under your pressure. Well mister detective, you can threaten me. You can bring out your rubber hoses if you choose. I will not jeopardize my client's emotional health. Not at this time.”

Hannibal stepped to the side and into the room a few feet to watch the confrontation better. Lippincott was strong willed, but how long would he endure a staring contest with Rissik? After a full minute, he looked away from the detective's dangerous eyes. Then Rissik stepped back, lifting the left side of his jacket. Lippincott's eyes widened as if he feared the policeman might actually shoot.

“Don't worry,” Rissik said. “I don't need my gun. I've got much better weapons.” From his inside suit jacket pocket he pulled a handful of folded papers. They separated into two small packets, one in each of his hands.

Cindy stepped forward. “I checked with Charter,” she said “You haven't committed her. She's signed in voluntarily. And that means we can require her presence. Of course, you could have her committed I suppose, which is why we also have a writ of habeas corpus requiring you to bring her before a court.”

Lippincott's mouth opened and closed twice, then he slumped into his chair. Now it was Hannibal's turn.

“None of us wants Mrs. Nieswand cross examined in a court of law,” Hannibal said. “That kind of pressure can damage the healthiest minds.”

“Even if I let you talk to her,” Lippincott said, “a clumsy approach could send her farther into her psychosis.”

“Or,” Hannibal offered, “You could tell us what she knows. We think we know what happened that day. We're really looking for confirmation.” Lippincott looked up, startled. His hands settled on his desk and he now looked ready to listen.

“My client, Sloan Lerner, is accused of the murder of Patrick Louis, also known as Ike Paton,” Cindy said. “I believe him innocent, but he was on the property that day.” She started pacing in front of Lippincott's desk, and Hannibal imagined her working a jury. “My client went to the Nieswand home that day to see Abigail Nieswand. It seems she borrowed money from someone last year and never repaid the debt. Mister Lerner is a collection agent, whose job it was to recover the money. But instead of seeing Mrs. Nieswand, he encountered Ike Paton, whom he knew years ago as Patrick Louis. And Louis was quite protective of Mrs. Nieswand.”

Cindy stopped in mid stride and turned a penetrating gaze on Lippincott. Suddenly she was not handling a jury, but dealing with a hostile witness. “Did you know Mrs. Nieswand and Pat Louis were lovers just a year ago in Atlantic City, Doctor? I see by your face that you did. Did you think no one else would ever find out?”

Without actually moving, Lippincott appeared to be backed into a corner. He looked from one accusing face to another. “You don't know. I mean, you don't understand the situation. Mrs. Nieswand is prone to
addictive behavior. Alcohol. Barbiturates. This man. That was addictive behavior too.”

“Yes, well we do know my client confronted Louis outside the Nieswand house and never got to speak to Mrs. Nieswand,” Cindy continued, not letting any of the pressure escape. As she paced, her hair flipped over her conservative collar, snapping at Lippincott like a whip. “They fought. Louis pulled a knife. He cut my client, who fought back and managed to knock him out. And then,” she turned and slapped her palms down loudly on the desk, “And then he left. Left Louis lying there, unconscious. A car pulled up, then pulled away. She had to hear. She was alone in the house. Her lover never came back in. She must have gone out to see what was the matter.”

While she described events, Cindy slowly leaned toward Lippincott. Now he stared forward as if the lion cage was open and he was next to be eaten. Hannibal and Rissik exchanged admiring glances. Then Hannibal stepped forward, took her arm and gently pulled her back.

“It wasn't just the dead body of her lover that drove her over the edge,” Hannibal said. “She saw something, or maybe heard something that shocked her.”

Lippincott looked down but could not hide the pain on his face or in his gut. “No. She saw no evidence of another person.”

“No,” Hannibal said, “nothing she told you.”

Lippincott looked up. “You think she'd tell you something she didn't tell me?”

“You don't know what to ask,” Rissik said.

“Think about this,” Hannibal went on. “We followed a pretty thin trail of clues to get this far. We told you all this to let you know we can put things together the
untrained person might miss. I know if we can talk to her, even through you, we'll get something to incriminate Angela, to implicate her in this murder. Isn't that what you want?”

Lippincott's arms were wrapped around him now, as if to hold him together. His head moved slowly back and forth, and a thin sweat broke out on his bare head. “That's just it. She won't say anything to implicate Angela or anyone else.”

Hannibal bared his teeth and clenched his fists. “How do you know that?”

“Because she's confessed to the murder herself.”

Lippincott huddled in the corner of the back seat behind Hannibal, clutching his little black bag on his lap. Hannibal did not think he had any need for it, but figured it was the doctor's security blanket. Rissik, beside him, had been pretty rough getting him into the car and was undoubtedly capable of more coarse behavior if Lippincott said or did anything he considered warranted it. Hannibal thought the doctor was probably lucky they had decided to travel together to the office. If Rissik had arrived in a police car, Lippincott would likely be handcuffed to it now. But although he was clearly intimidated, Lippincott continued to try to explain on their way to the hospital.

“It's an expression of guilt you see. On some level, she knew her relationship with this Pat Louis was destructive, that it would destroy them eventually. When she found him dead, her mind took a quite predictable leap of fancy, to thinking she was responsible for his death. Anything else she saw or heard was blotted out by that twisted perception.”

Rissik shrugged his shoulders and sat back. “Or she shot him,” he said. And that was the bottom line, Hannibal thought as they pulled into a parking space at the Charter Behavioral Health System Facility. People came here when they needed specialized care of a type not available almost anywhere else in
the area. And while Lippincott's scenario was credible, it was equally likely he was too close to his patient after years of nursing her through her fantasies.

In his years as a Secret Service agent, Hannibal had seen people who believed their government representatives were communist spies, demons, or even escaped Nazis who had run concentration camps in World War II. He had protected his charges from the most sincere patriots in the country, people who believed the only way to save the nation, sometimes the world, was to destroy a particular politician whose only real sins were the usual ones of greed, vanity and sloth. Was it such a stretch that a woman whose grasp on reality had loosened would decide to destroy her lover? He unlocked the car doors, but touched Cindy's hand to keep her inside for a second.

“How could a woman kill the man she loved?”

Cindy's smile was grim. “How could an apparently sane mother lock her own children in a car and roll it into a lake?”

The atmosphere in the hospital did not seem so repressive before, but now Hannibal and Cindy stayed close as they entered. The small group moved silently across the lobby, and no one else spoke when Doctor Lippincott asked to have Mrs. Nieswand brought to the visiting area. The nurse at the desk recognized them and, to her credit, showed none of the confusion she must have felt seeing them together. Instead she smiled and spoke to the doctor in quiet, professional terms.

“I'm afraid Mrs. Nieswand has left,” she said.

Lippincott blinked rapidly and turned his head at an angle as if he must not have heard correctly. “No, you
don't understand. I'm her attending physician. What do you mean she's left?”

The nurse was unmoved. “She signed herself out sir. Her husband came and picked her up. You only missed them by a few minutes.”

“Her husband,” Lippincott whispered. “Oh God no.” His face turned the color of old parchment. He walked toward the door and the others followed. Once outside, he stared out across the wooded grounds. He was a lost boy, wondering which path would lead him home.

“Where would they go?” Rissik asked him.

“He's frightened and desperate,” Lippincott said. “They could be anywhere.”

Behind them, Cindy said “They went home.”

Hannibal saw the hard set of her jaw and knew she was serious. “Darling that's the last place they'd go. He wants to hide. Guy with that kind of money, I'll bet he's got a place out of the country.”

She shook her head. “A doctor trained in psychology, a detective, an ex-cop, but your problem is you're all boys. And boys never stop being boys. Of course he wants to hide, but they just left and he doesn't know she's been missed yet. Look, this guy's taking his wife somewhere. A guy who says his wife disappeared and he never found out where she went. A guy who probably doesn't even know he hired her lover. You think he'd know what to pack for her? Hell, he probably doesn't even know which toothpaste she likes. Fellows, they went home to pack.”

Hannibal's car had no siren, but Rissik made no comment about their speed. And the white Volvo 850
GLT had plenty of guts for the run. Luckily most of the distance down into Virginia was covered on the beltway, where they did not even start passing cars until Hannibal pushed it over seventy-five. Only reckless driving or extremely bad luck would get them pulled over.

It was an eerily quiet drive. The evil clouds were back, glowering overhead in silent threat. Hannibal left the music off. In the back, Rissik and Lippincott slumped in their respective corners, wrapped in their own private thoughts. All Hannibal's senses were tuned into moving his vehicle at the maximum speed maintaining a reasonable safety margin. Occasionally he would glance toward Cindy, her brow wrinkled and lips tight. He knew she was grateful to the partners of her law firm for giving her a chance at the big leagues right out of law school. And he knew how much she respected them. He had heard her describe Nieswand as the most effective attorney she had ever seen, not as emotionally deep as Balor, the other partner, but more creative and aggressive. Now she undoubtedly felt she was betraying him. At the same time, she had to be reforming her view of him in light of the unavoidable facts.

Hannibal had only learned three things of importance in his time in Washington. You should not see how sausage is made, even good sausage. You should not know how laws are made, even good laws. And you should not know too much about your leaders, even good leaders. It only reduces their value to you, and makes you miserable.

As Hannibal pulled into Nieswand's driveway a slow drizzle started. They all got out of the car, ignoring the gentle tap of droplets on their heads and shoulders. The house looked the same as when
Hannibal paid his first visit. He saw no sign anything had changed since then, except for a barely visible stain on a cement garage floor. Nieswand's car was parked over Pat Louis' death spot.

“They're home,” Rissik said, stalking toward the door like Dick Tracy. In recognition of his authority, the others followed in single file. The rain washed the sweet scent of the flowers out of the air, leaving the clean smell of ozone. The smell that comes before a storm. It also rustled the leaves of surrounding trees, almost talking aloud, warning them.

A much louder crack followed. It was not thunder. A bullet drove asphalt skyward two feet from Rissik and he dived backward, landing prone beside Hannibal's car. Three others joined him there in less than a second.

“Go Away!” Gabriel Nieswand shouted from a second floor window. Hannibal looked over the Volvo's hood, but shadows hid Nieswand's face.