Blood and Bone (4 page)

Hannibal turned to see Mortimer staring up at his painting, lips pressed together and turned in to his teeth, eyes closed, hands thrust deep in his pockets. “The bulk of my collection is in a locked cabinet in my study, in pull-out trays. That bitch convinced him to take a tray of my more valuable coins when they ran off. He stole from me, Mister Jones,” Mortimer turned to Hannibal, conflict twisting his powerful face in odd ways, “but I'm prepared to forgive him even that if you can bring him back to me.”

“You haven't given me much to go on, Mister Mortimer,” Hannibal said. “I'll have to consider this, but I'll let you know before the day is out.”

It was sprinkling again from a black sky which promised a real storm when it worked up the nerve. Hannibal supported himself with both hands on the hood of his car. Nieswand stood a couple of yards behind but Cindy stared into his face from a foot away.

“So what's the real reason?” she asked. Then she was quiet, as if she knew if she stood there long enough he would explain. He wished he knew how she could be so confident—and so right.

“He never once mentioned the sick kid,” He finally said. Cindy nodded, confirming that was all the explanation needed. Nieswand just as clearly did not get it.

“You got to understand Harlan,” Nieswand said. “He was on top of the world. Everything going his way. Then his only son just disappeared. Mrs. Mortimer died of a broken heart just months later. Doctor Lippincott said it was stress-induced angina, but I know it was a broken heart, and Harlan blames Jacob. Men do funny things sometimes when they love and hate the same thing. But it's not your job or mine to judge. Mine is to represent Harlan's interests. I'm prepared to hand you a retainer right now against your fee and promise you a fat bonus if you pull this off.”

Hannibal turned and leaned against his Volvo with his arms crossed. “I'm still thinking about this.”

“Well, I have to get home,” Nieswand said. “My wife's not feeling well. If you decide to take the case, come by the house for your money. If not, let me know so I can try to get someone else. Maybe Cynthia knows someone more cooperative.”

As Nieswand pulled away, Hannibal asked “Are you in trouble if I say no?”

Before Cindy could answer, Camille came out of the house. The light rain made her hair begin to curl at the ends, but she did not seem to care. Outside of her father-in-law's presence she seemed much more self-assured.

“Would you please come back inside? You don't have the whole picture.” When Hannibal hesitated she turned to Cindy. “I see you're a team. Please, both of you come back in. Hear me out and then if you don't want to get involved with this family, I'll understand.”

“May I ask a question?” Cindy said on their way up the long carpeted stairway.

“Of course. I think you'll find me a bit more open than Harlan.”

“Good,” Cindy said. “Do you want to see him again?”

Camille stopped at a door. “Eighteen years is a long time, girl. And Jake mistreated me, and abandoned his son. But I still love him and that part of my life's an unfinished story, isn't it? But this isn't about me. I wanted you to know, before you left, what this is really about.”

Camille pushed the door open. The room was dim, the shutters admitting only narrow bands of light. Someone had sprayed vanilla scent recently. A hip hop beat played at such a low volume, Hannibal felt more than heard it. Cindy went in a few steps and stopped.

“Come on in,” the boy said. “It ain't catching.” He raised his head from his pillow with some effort. Hannibal walked in close to the bed. The bald head and skeletal form made the seventeen year old look like a man of fifty.

“Kyle, this is Mister Hannibal Jones,” Camille said. The boy presented a hand, which Hannibal quickly took. Then, reconsidering, he pulled off his gloves and shook again. Kyle's dark skin was chalky underneath, Hannibal assumed from anemia. Or the chemotherapy. Or the radiation.

“Ma tells me you're a private “Dick,” Mister Jones.” Kyle's voice lacked energy, but his smile made it up. Hannibal pulled his Oakley's off.

“Sort of,” he said. “A lot of people think I'm just a “Dick.” And call me Hannibal, please.”

Kyle laughed a genuine, but weak laugh. “So, you going to find my dad?”

“Well, I don't think I'm ready to make any promises.” Hannibal crouched down beside the bed and looked at the portrait of normality the room presented. Boom box, comic books, television, and a stack of text books on Kyle's night stand. “What you reading?”

“Got to keep up with school,” Kyle said. “No point getting better and then having to repeat a grade or something. See, I want to have some choice of the college I go to. I don't think I'll make it on an athletic scholarship. I mean, it's a little late for me to start developing a good hook shot, don't you think?”

“You know, Kyle, even if I find your dad…”

“Hey, I know it's not a lock,” Kyle said, pulling himself into a seated position. His pajama top hung on his shoulders like the shirt on an understuffed scarecrow. “Bet I know more about it than you. See, what I need's an allogeneic transplant. That means a close family member. The donor takes an HLA test. That's human lymphocyte antigens. You follow?”

“I understand enough to know there has to be a type match,” Hannibal said.

“Right. Well, the odds of a match are about twenty-five percent. Mom and grandpa already struck out, so that's two out of four. So when you find my father, we'll have a fifty-fifty chance. Now, don't you think fifty-fifty's enough to have hope?”

After a moment, Hannibal said “Absolutely.”

“So, think you can find him?”

“I got one advantage, Kyle,” Hannibal said, standing. “I don't think anybody has really looked for him yet. I'll report in to you as I go.”

Kyle reached out his hand one more time. “Will you lie to me?”

“Kyle!” Camille snapped. The question was so direct it caught Hannibal by surprise. But the two men locked eyes and Hannibal clasped Kyle's hand.

“No, son. I know some people who love you have probably tried to make things look better than they are. But no, I won't lie to you. Now let me go get started, okay. I'm on a deadline here.”

Camille's face was clouding up as she closed Kyle's door from the outside. Cindy patted her shoulder, blinking to keep her eyes dry

“Poor kid,” Hannibal said. “Being attacked by his own blood and bone. Got a lot of heart though.” Then, to center his mind, he performed the ritual of pulling his gloves back on and pushing his sunglasses back into place. When he turned to Camille his mouth was set in a grim line.

“You got a picture of Jacob?” he asked.

“In my room.”

“Well let's go,” Hannibal said. “Like I told Kyle, I'm on the clock.”

In Camille's room, Hannibal stared at a photograph of a young lion. Jacob had his hair picked out in a neat natural style. A peace sign and a ceramic black fist shared a leather cord around his neck. His eyes were very light, at least in the photo, shielded behind tortoise shell glasses. His teeth were very even and very white. His nose was thin for a black man, almost pointed. But his lips were full and his chin aggressive. A face a person would not quickly forget.

“Can you find him?” Camille asked.

“God, where to start?” Hannibal said, almost to himself. He ran a hand back through his hair. While he memorized the face of the man he would be searching for, Cindy put a comforting hand on Camille's arm.

“Eighteen years ago this wasn't a mystery, was it?” Cindy asked. “If you really loved him, you know where he was.”

To Hannibal's surprise, Camille knelt and pulled a shoe box from under her bed. He noticed there was no dust on its lid. When she sat on the bed, Cindy joined her. Camille took in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh before lifting the lid from the box. From it she pulled a greeting card and handed it to Hannibal.

“A friend up in Baltimore sent me that birthday card. That address on the back is the place where he worked.”

The address was for something called the Moonglow club. “You never told Harlan?” he asked.

“He'd have had Jake arrested,” Camille said. “I wanted to let Jake come back on his own. I always thought Jake's fascination with that other girl would fade away and he'd come back to me. I didn't want anything bad to happen to him.”

“Well, this is at least a starting point. Ever been there?”

“Kyle was a year old when I finally got up the nerve to go up there.” Camille said. Tears started down her face, but she was not participating in the crying act. It happened all by itself. “Took Daddy H's car and got a map of Baltimore and drove myself up there. Me and my baby. But when I got there, he was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Nobody had seen him for months,” she said. “He just left one day and never came back.”

“Quit his job, just like that?” Hannibal asked.

“Well, he was working but it wasn't really a job.” Camille next produced a newspaper clipping with a grainy photo attached. It was Jacob Mortimer all right, under a huge afro and without his glasses. He was on stage at a small club, wearing bell-bottoms and three-inch shirt cuffs, bellowing into a microphone.

“Daddy H sent Jake to school to be a lawyer, but what he really wanted to do was sing,” Camille said. “That's why he dropped out of school. He was gigging at the Moonglow regularly. Nobody who knew him could miss his face, or his voice, but Daddy H never heard about him because he sang as Bobby Newton.”

“Jeez, the guy really longed for the sixties, didn't he?” Hannibal said. “That outfit, and taking the names of two of the Black Panther leaders for his stage name. How come you never went up to see him perform?”

“You kidding? I was too busy being a mom and studying. After Jake dropped out, Daddy H put me through college. Not that I ever did anything with it, but I owed him. I had to make up for Jake, didn't I?”

Ten minutes later, Hannibal was driving southward through the storm the sky had been threatening all day. It was almost too warm and muggy for his car's climate control system to cope with. The midday darkness was deep enough to force him to remove his glasses. He stared through his wipers whipping back and forth, straining to see what was ahead.

“I'm glad you agreed to help,” Cindy said, almost shouting over the din of rain crashing on the Volvo's roof. She had squirmed out of her jacket and kicked off her shoes. “That boy needs to know somebody's really trying. And his mother needs comfort.”

“Well, don't look at me,” Hannibal said. “I don't go for the whiny type.”

“She wouldn't have to look far if she'd only look. Malcolm's right there.”

“I think he helps,” Hannibal said, loosening his tie. “She said he's her best friend.”

“Didn't you even see?” Cindy said. “The man's in love with her. I mean, wasn't it obvious? Some detective you are.” She softened her remark with a kiss on his cheek.

“Hey, I find your boss as big a mystery as the missing heir,” Hannibal said, slowing down and turning on his headlights in the growing storm. “I mean, I'll be real glad to get back there, get my
retainer and get to work. But some day I'd like to investigate him. I'd like to know how an old Jewish attorney comes to have so many black friends. And why he puts up with a chauffeur he can't keep in line. And how come he sends his wife away when he's got company coming.”

“I can answer that last one,” Cindy said. “He's tried to keep it quiet, but it's pretty common knowledge that Abby Nieswand has a bit of a drug problem. She's been in and out of treatment centers without much success. Hey, maybe he needs a tough driver to try to keep her under control. Makes you wonder if…” Cindy's hands suddenly slammed into the dashboard. “Oh my God! Over there!”

Hannibal had almost missed it. A car traveling in the opposite lane had veered off the road, into the wooded area Hannibal knew to be the Lake Fairfax county park. It had slid down the slight grade maybe fifty feet. It looked as if Hannibal's car was the only one on the road, but he slowed to a crawl anyway before pulling to the side. Then he signaled and flashed his lights before turning around. Even moving along on the shoulder on Hunter Mill, he almost overlooked the crashed car. It was a Ford Taurus in that dull gold color so many of them seem to be, its right headlight smashed against a tree.

“Should I call an ambulance?” Cindy asked, picking up the car phone.

“Let's see if there's still anyone in there first,” Hannibal said. He climbed out of his car and slid down the embankment off the edge of the road, squinting against the rain. He was ankle deep in mud as he approached the Ford. Water poured down the back of his neck as he bent to look into the driver's seat. He hated getting wet with his clothes on.

The driver was alone in the car, hunched over the steering wheel. A big black man, casually dressed. Hannibal opened the door, and the driver moaned.

“Take it easy,” Hannibal said. “You've been in an accident. Are you okay?” No response. Worried, Hannibal pulled the man into an upright position. The right sleeve of his light windbreaker was torn, and blood was caked around it. As Hannibal moved him, fresh blood flowed out.

“You're hurt,” Hannibal said, looking around as if someone was there to help. He considered taking the man to his own car, but quickly abandoned that idea. Even up so small a grade, the man could be hurt getting to the road in a driving rain. Besides, for all Hannibal knew he could have other injuries to his back or neck.

“Listen,” he told the man inside the Ford. “Sit tight and try not to move too much. I'm going back up. I've got a phone in the car. I'll have an ambulance here in a couple of minutes.”