Collateral Damage (3 page)

“This child needs me right now, and the help the Lord can give when we go to Him in prayer,” Mother Washington said softly, looking down at Anna. Then she pointed back toward the house. “That child needs you, and what you can do. Go help her.”

Hannibal looked past Mother Washington to find another black woman standing in his kitchen doorway. This one was no one's grandmother, judging by her apparent age. She was in fact as petite as Anna, nicely rounded and attractive without being aggressive about it. She wore a conservatively cut navy blue skirt suit and heels, which added a couple of artificial inches to her height. Her black hair was straightened and hung to shoulder length. Long artistic fingers clung to a small clutch purse as if for dear life.

“Well, go on,” Cindy said. “Can't you see she's got trouble?”

Yes, Hannibal could see that plainly on her face and in her body language. And as he stood, he saw his perfect Sunday afternoon fading in the distance. He considered that for a self-employed man he certainly seemed to take orders from a lot of people. Partially in revenge and partially in self-defense, he reached down to capture Cindy's hand.

“I'll go, but not alone.”

At the door, Hannibal held out his hand and introduced himself and Cindy. The woman took his hand solidly, then Cindy's.

“Very pleased to meet you. I'm Bea Collins. Mrs. Washington tells me you're very good at helping people. And I'm afraid I need some help today.”

“Let's not talk out here,” Hannibal said. “There's a party going on and I hate to ruin it. My office is right next door.”

Mother Washington had escorted Bea through Hannibal's unlocked front door and through his kitchen to the backyard. He took her to the door on the other side, just a few feet away. The kitchen they entered was never used.

Hannibal didn't like to do business this way: in jeans and sneakers, with barbecue sauce under his nails. He escorted Bea through the flat he used for business, past the spare guest bedroom, the storage room, the room with weights and the hanging bag he sometimes used, to the big front room that was his office. He settled behind his desk and waved his visitor into the facing chair. Cindy sat at the smaller desk by the door. Thick shafts of sunshine poured in through the two big windows on Hannibal's left, splashing the room with brightness and calling his mind away from work. With an effort he ignored the light and focused on the nervous woman in front of him. She was staring at his eyes, but they often did at first. He ignored it unless they actually asked about them. Her own eyes were a soft fawn brown, and very vulnerable.

“All right, Miss Collins, you seem to know a bit about me from Mother Washington. Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself and what kind of trouble you've found yourself in?”

“Myself?” Bea asked as if the question were a surprise. “Well, I'm an interior design architect with offices in Georgetown. The trouble is that Dean, that's my fiancé, Dean Edwards, he disappeared yesterday. I think he might be in danger.” It sounded to Hannibal like a response on the Dating Game. But while she spoke, Bea sat leaning forward on the edge of her chair, knees clamped together, fingers wrapped around the top of her purse in her lap. Her posture reminded Hannibal of a dog sitting up to beg. Her eyes were begging too.

“Disappeared?” Hannibal asked. He had learned to ask open, general questions if he wanted full answers.

“Yesterday, Mister Jones. I went out shopping early. When I got home he was, well, just gone.”

“So, you live together.” That implied a degree of commitment, but no diamond ring adorned her hand.

Bea was about to answer when Mother Washington and Anna entered the room. Her eyes cut to Mother Washington and she briefly hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said. “He lives at my place now. For the last couple weeks. Three, actually.”

“I see. And what makes you think he's in danger?” Hannibal asked.

Bea's face said that was a stupid question. “Well, why else would he be gone? Without a word, without even a note?”

Hannibal could think of several possibilities, but none this woman was likely interested in hearing. Instead he asked “Is Dean in with a bad crowd? Involved with drugs or some sort of illegal activity?” When Bea's eyes cut to Cindy, Hannibal added, “Ms. Santiago is an attorney and anything said in her presence will be kept in strictest confidence.”

“It hardly matters. My Dean would never use drugs or do anything illegal.”

Hannibal nodded, leaned back, crossed his legs. “You've filed a police report, of course.”

“Yes, this morning, but those people don't care. They won't twitch a muscle until a body turns up dripping blood.”

An exaggeration of course, but Hannibal knew the police would not invest resources into a search for an adult missing less than twenty-four hours, and to his way of thinking there was good reason for that. He leaned forward slowly, wanting to soften his answer as much as possible. “Miss Collins, I'm sorry but this isn't really my type of case. Maybe you don't understand what it is I do.”

Before pain could even register on Bea's face, Mother Washington said, “She understands, Hannibal. You help people, just like this little girl here.” She patted Anna's hand as she said it. “And I just know you're going to help her.”

“Mother Washington,” Hannibal said, standing, “We don't have any reason to believe this woman's fiancé is in any kind of trouble.”

Mother Washington stepped heavily to the desk and placed a big soft hand on Hannibal's shoulder. “Look at her son. It's Bea Collins who's troubled right now. A woman who sits in my church every Sunday and sings out so you can hear her on every hymn and I bring her to you for help. I know you won't let her down.”

Hannibal shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. Mother Washington had helped him move in and
become part of the neighborhood. She had a heart as big as the Capitol dome and, besides that, she was the unofficial mayor of this block and everybody's surrogate grandmother. Why did she work so hard when she must know he hadn't the strength to say no to her?

“Look, maybe he's visiting family.”

“Dean hasn't any living relatives,” Bea said. “I'm all he's got.”

“Maybe a coworker,” Hannibal said. “Sometimes guys get cold feet and want to hang with the fellows for a bit. Why not call his job tomorrow morning? If he's at work you know he's okay, right.”

At this point Bea sniffled. Mother Washington's eyes bored into Hannibal. Cindy's eyes rolled toward the ceiling. Bea managed to look up at Hannibal with damp eyes. “I went to his job yesterday afternoon. Sometimes he goes on the weekend for a while. At least I thought so.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please, Mister Jones. He told me he was working on a programming project for a marketing company over in Alexandria. And there were people there, working on the weekend. But, they had never heard of him. Oh, Mister Jones….”

The picture was morphing before Hannibal's eyes. Mother Washington's face told him he was getting her view of the situation at last. Another woman being abused by a man, but more subtly than what Anna Ingersoll's husband did. More subtle, but perhaps no less damaging. When Cindy stood, Hannibal knew she saw the same picture. She stepped closer to Bea, looking down at her as if she were a witness on the stand.

“Sounds like you don't know this man very well. Maybe it would be better if you just never saw him again, eh?”

Bea's eyes slid up Cindy's body, past the jeans clinging so tightly to her rounded form, past the tee shirt her breasts threatened to burst through, past the wavy hair cascading wantonly onto her shoulders, and stared deep into her dark Latin eyes. Hannibal would never have believed any woman
could make Cindy look cheap, but the tiny curve at the edge of Bea's lips spoke volumes.

“That,” Bea said slowly, “is not the nature of my love.” Then her eyes returned to Hannibal. He could see then that this Dean had wormed his way all the way down into her soul.

“Will you find him for me Mister Jones?”

“You understand this isn't a free service, Miss Collins.”

Now Bea's cutting smile settled on Hannibal. “This isn't about money for me, Mister Jones. I will pay you whatever it takes if you're the man who can do the job. Business has been good for me. I already have enough saved for the down payment on our..” the sentence tripped her, but only for a moment, “our first home. Picked out a nice little brownstone in Georgetown, near my office. But without Dean, that's an empty dream, isn't it? Will you help me? I may not be your usual client, whatever that may be, but Mother Washington told me that you help those who have no place else to turn. I have no place else to turn.”

Would he help her? Help a woman being taken in by a swindler, a swindler who had perhaps had a change of heart or moved on to bigger things? Would he take her money to find the con artist and show her his true face? Perhaps Mother Washington was right and it was the only way to free this woman's heart to love again. Not the kind of trouble he usually helped people out of, but perhaps as valid as any.

Besides, even if he could say no to this petite stranger sitting in his office on Sunday morning in her church clothes, he could never say no to Mother Washington. He pulled a drawer open, pulled out a contract and slid it across the desk to Bea. She signed without reading it while he was talking.

“Five hundred dollars a day. Plus unusual expenses. And another two fifty if I need to subcontract other professionals on the case. No way to know how long a trace like this can take. If he's lied about his work, he's probably lied about a lot more. Are you sure you want to see this fellow again that badly?”

Bea's signature was small and precise. When she finished, she returned Hannibal's pen to its stand and asked, “When can you get started?”

Hannibal looked at Mother Washington who smiled warmly. “It's a fine yard party, son, but it's running itself just fine. And I think all your friends would understand.” He continued to glare at her. “I'll clean up and make sure everything gets put away proper.”

He walked around the desk to lean against it just to the side of Bea's chair. His office seemed stifling just then, but maybe it was just the mix of four different women's perfumes.

“Truth is, with missing persons, the sooner you start the more likely success is. Do you have a recent photo of the missing man, Miss Collins?”

“Well, not a still picture,” she said, fumbling her purse open. “Never really had time to take any. But I've something even better!” She gave him her first genuine smile and handed up a tape cassette.

Hannibal managed to leave Mother Washington and Anna behind when he shifted to his own apartment across the hall. His front door entered the fourth room back, just before the kitchen. Cindy dropped onto his sofa but Bea stood while he pushed the tape into his VCR. The image soon resolved itself into a news broadcast, and a second later the sound kicked in. An anchor was setting up the next story, a fluff piece, but Bea narrated right over her.

“This is from Monday's news. It's about last Sunday's event at the Mall. You remember, the international food thing? Dean and I were there.”

The story was the kind of light fare beginning reporters are often assigned and composed mostly of man on the scene interviews. The reporter, a trim redhead, was too perky by half. She interviewed couple after couple, child after child, about what a fun time they were having getting a “Taste of
DC” as the event was called. The annual event took place on The National Mall. Not a collection of stores but rather a flat park sitting in the middle of the city, anchored at one end by the Washington Monument.

The National Mall is as perfect a gathering place today as it was a hundred years ago, big enough to give the revelers the illusion of being separated from the traffic and the grime of government at work, surrounded as they are by this nation's repositories of knowledge and culture, the various buildings of the Smithsonian Institute.