Blood and Bone (8 page)

Moon tipped his glass up too, then thumped it down on his desk. “Damned if I know. One night he just didn't show up. The crowd was pretty pissed off, I'll tell you. No call or anything. So I jumped in the jalopy and got on over there. Gone, the whole lot of them. Landlord, neighbors, nobody knew nothing.” Moon's cheerful demeanor dipped then, his eyes cast down at the poster's face. “You know, I thought we were friends. I mean, I know it was a tough time for the black white thing, but I thought we were friends. But he never said a word. Just vanished without a trace.”

Hannibal stood. “Nobody vanishes without a trace, Mister Moon. Everybody has to be somewhere. Laws of physics. If I can find some old neighbors or the landlord, there's still a chance. Think you can find his old address?”

Moon appeared near tears as he pulled a note pad and pencil from under the traitorous poster. “I don't need to find it. I know it like my own address. Here,
and good luck. And if you find him,” Moon looked up with reddened eyes, “would you tell him some of his old friends would like to hear from him?”

The afternoon sun stabbed Hannibal's eyes as they drove west down Orleans Street. They had the windows down to take advantage of the Spring breeze. The light wind carried with it the sounds of a series of boom boxes they passed. The effect was like being in a car with a driver who constantly changes the radio station. It also brought the intriguing smells of an endless series of dinners being started. Southern food, soul food, fried food and, once in a while, the tangy scent of barbecue.

“You sure you don't need a map?” Hannibal asked from the back seat.

“Hannibal, I been driving a cab in this area for years. I know Baltimore as well as I know Washington. It ain't far.”

“Okay,” Hannibal said, clenching his teeth against the thump of a pothole every bit as deep as any in DC. “I guess I expected him to be a bit more upscale.”

“Sorry,” Ray called from the front, lighting another smoke. “Once you pass Johns Hopkins it's downhill from there. I don't know, makes sense to me. The kid wanted to get as far away from his father's world as he could, right? Join the revolution, get with the real people. He'd go looking for a real neighborhood.”

It made sense to Hannibal too. And unless much had changed in eighteen years, Jacob Mortimer had found what he was looking for. Hannibal could almost hear the income level drop as Orleans became Franklin Street. By the time Franklin turned into Edmonson, he felt right at home. This could be Anacostia, his neighborhood. Same people, same
buildings, same sparse trees trying to survive at the edge of the sidewalk.

Ray turned a corner, then another, and Hannibal watched a kid exchange money for drugs with an even younger boy. Now every face he saw was darker than his own and the limo was getting hard looks from some of the passersby.

“Uh Oh,” Ray said, and Hannibal sat forward, looking around for trouble. He did not see anyone nearby who looked like a threat, so he checked the dashboard. Plenty of gas. No warning lights. But Ray was pulling over to the curb so maybe something was happening to the car.

“What is it?”

“Nothing wrong up here,” Ray said, “But I think you got a problem. We're here.”

Hannibal checked the street number against the piece of paper he got from Moon. This was Jake Mortimer's last known address. A four-story apartment building in the middle of a block of row houses. He had lived on the first, which was now the only floor completely intact. The place was unoccupied. Large signs on the door and the boards over the front windows declared this building condemned.

When a clerk unlocked the door to the Baltimore Hall of Records at eight-thirty Tuesday morning, Hannibal and Ray walked in. Once inside, Hannibal knew which desk he wanted. The woman behind it looked like every librarian in a nineteen fifties film, complete with glasses and her hair with a bun on the back of her head. Before asking for any help, he offered her his private investigator's license and removed his Oakleys. She read it, compared the photo to his face, and returned it to him.

“I'm trying to verify birth records for an estate case,” he said. “The girl in question was born in Baltimore seventeen years ago. Are those birth records computerized yet?”

“Afraid not,” the clerk replied. “I think they're on microfiche, but they might still just be paper records. We could find that birth certificate for you in ten business days, but since you're a licensed investigator and all, if you're in a real hurry…”

“Yes,” he smiled. “If you'll just point me in the right direction, my assistant and I will get started.”

Two minutes later Hannibal and Ray were seated at adjoining microfiche readers, poring over poorly organized copies of every birth certificate filed in the state of Maryland.

“I was up too early for this, Chico,” Ray said.

“That's why I turned in early,” Hannibal said, working to bring his reader into focus. “I knew we'd be fighting rush hour and I wanted to be here when they opened. Don't forget, Kyle's clock is ticking and I want to report some progress to him today.”

“Speaking of reporting, did you call Cindy last night? She told me she's involved with the case.”

Hannibal never looked up from his search, lapsing into the tunnel vision he knew often led to success. “No, I never got the chance to call.”

Cindy paid the cab driver, one of her father's employees, and charged up the stairs in front of Hannibal's building. With his car missing, she had no way of knowing if he was home, but she hoped to catch him before he went out.

She wore her rust colored skirt suit today, because she would be in court and this suit had always been lucky for her. She never heard from Hannibal last night and she did not want to go all day without seeing him. He sometimes had tunnel vision when he was on a case, and he could forget all about their relationship. She hoped they could have breakfast together before they started their respective busy days.

She found the outer door locked. Unusual, but not unheard of this early in the morning. She fished a key out of her small clutch purse and let herself in. Then a walk down the hall on the left brought her to Hannibal's living room door. This time she let herself in through an unlocked door. The living room was empty, but she could hear water running in the
kitchen at the back of the house. Good, she was in time. She loved to surprise him.

But her cheerful hello froze in her throat as she walked into the kitchen. A woman stood at the sink, wiping a plate. A tall, slim, beautiful woman with fabulous legs. Cindy could evaluate her body objectively, because she had on a skirt tighter and shorter than anything Cindy would attempt, and the tube top left little to the imagination. She was very dark, with naturally straight black hair. When she turned, her eyes flashed defensively. Possessively?

“What are you doing here?”

“I think that's my question,” Cindy said in her courtroom voice. “Who the hell are you?”

“Name's Jewel,” the tall woman said, wiping her hands. “Sorry, I wasn't expecting anybody else. Just thought I'd straighten up after breakfast for Hannibal. When he told me I could stay here he didn't mention any other girls.” She gave Cindy an appraising look up and down, almost the way a man would. It made Cindy vaguely uncomfortable. “I don't recognize you. You from around here?”

Cindy wanted to sink her fingernails into this woman's deep, alluring eyes, but instead she dug them into her palms. “No, I'm not. And I'm not staying. Looks like you've got everything covered here.”

Except the cleavage, she thought as she turned to leave. She always thought Hannibal liked girls with bigger breasts.

“I got it!” Hannibal tapped both fists on the table, grinning like a kid. “This has got to be it.”

“Is it the right year?” Ray asked, getting up to look over Hannibal's shoulder.

“Yeah, but even if it wasn't, I'd stick with this,” Hannibal said, triggering the printer. “Check out the name. Angela Davis Newton.”

“This guy really was a black power freak,” Ray said. “Angela Davis was a Black Panther supporter who took a shot at the presidency in nineteen sixty-eight. Just about the only woman of any influence in the movement.”

“He really had to dig to find a female name,” Hannibal said. “Born to Bobby Newton and Barbara Robinson. He changed his name, but he wasn't going to pretend they were married. Interesting guy.”

Ray reflected Hannibal's triumphant smile for a moment, then his face slowly dropped. “This is great and all,” he said, “but how does it get us any closer to finding this interesting guy?”

Hannibal pointed, as if Ray could see what he was reading under the microfiche reader. “Just read a little lower. See, the birth certificate includes the hospital, in this case Johns Hopkins, and the doctor's name. Raymond Cummings.” Hannibal looked up at Ray's still puzzled face. “The doctor who provided Barbie's prenatal care probably got to know them pretty well. I can find him with a phone call, if he's still practicing, and we can find out what he remembers about our retro couple.”

Some white people, Hannibal observed, shrank as they aged. Doctor Raymond Cummings looked like he had a slow leak, and most of the air had escaped his body over the years. His stoop shouldered form supported a head which reminded Hannibal of a dried apple, but his cloud of white hair, beard and mustache
gave him a vaguely Mark Twain look. The white lab coat and skeptical expression did not help.

“Sorry I couldn't see you right away, Mister Jones,” Cummings said. “I have a rather busy practice and I can't just put these people off to talk to some private eye.”

“No problem at all,” Hannibal said. Actually it had been four infuriating hours of pacing and watch checking. And there was not a legal parking space within three blocks of the professional building Cummings kept his office in, so Ray stayed downstairs in the car. Hannibal was not sure if this guy was really that busy or if he just did not want to look too available, but he had to make him know this was not a casual visit.

“Doctor, I need your help,” Hannibal began, choosing his approach as he went. The waiting room was small and Hannibal knew he could hold the doctor's attention if he placed the words in the right order. “I'm on a missing person's case, and I don't imagine such things usually interest you much. But you need to understand that my client is a seventeen year old boy with chronic myelogenous leukemia. You know how rare that is?”

“Indeed.” Cummings sat at the small desk, his knees inches from Hannibal's. “That form usually attacks older people. Is he responding to treatment?”

Hannibal closed his eyes behind his glasses and trotted out all the medical mumbo jumbo he had memorized. “Radiation therapy has proven fruitless. Chemotherapy has helped but that approach has run its course. According to Doctor Lippincott in Washington, my client's only hope, is allogeneic bone marrow transplantation.”

Cummings was no stupid man. Hannibal could see in his eyes he was putting the story together for himself. “I know Lippincott. Good man, and better with cancers than this old GP. So, hence the search. The missing person is a close relative, a possible lymphocytic match. An old client of mine I assume, a clue to whose whereabouts may be found in my records. Is that correct?”

Hannibal nodded. “My client's father was known as Bobby Newton. In fact, his name was Jacob Mortimer. Does either of those names mean anything to you, Doctor?”

Cummings stood up, taking such a deep breath, it temporarily inflated him. He nodded a couple of times, then shook his head side to side a few times. He chuckled silently, his shoulders shaking. He said “Oh my” and walked to the wall. Hannibal waited quietly for the payoff.

“Yes, I remember Bobby Newton,” Cummings said at last. “He seemed a fine young man when I knew him, loving, attentive to his woman. You've done quite a job of detecting, tracing Bobby to me. But I'm afraid your client has gotten out ahead of you.”