Collateral Damage (8 page)

“You said a red Chevrolet Corvette with Kitty as the vanity plate? No such vehicle.”

“Damn,” Hannibal had muttered.

“But,” she added with an annoying dramatic pause, “I do show a 1997 ‘Vette with a plate reading KITTYCAR. Think that could be it?”

Hannibal pulled away from the light a bit faster than he should have. “Very likely, kid. Whose ride is that?”

“Vehicle is registered to one Langford Kitteridge. And if you've got a pad and pencil I can give you his Arlington address.”

Instead, he had memorized the address and driven straight there. Now he sat in the colonial's extensive driveway, behind a low-slung midnight blue Lexus, gathering his official attitude. This was certainly the right place. The license plate on the Lexus read KITYCAR1. So the owners had wit and ego to spare. He didn't know anything about the residents except their obvious financial security. Was this Dean's last victim? If so, he might be no closer to tracking him down, but he accepted that as the way the job worked. You tracked down every lead. Detective work, unlike the romance of the movies, was really all about legwork.

The door's chimes echoed like bells in a church steeple. Hannibal imagined house workers scurrying like bats at the summons, but it was soon clear his image was mistaken. A minute is a long time to stand at a door. In that time he decided no one was home. The parked Lexus didn't mean anything. Owners of a house like this might well have a third vehicle, an SUV probably, and the owners would be off in that one. Oh, well, it was still good to have seen the place. He'd return later.

But he was only two steps away from the door when he heard it open, and a voice said, “Can I help you?” It was an
older man's voice, commanding but very disciplined. A butler's voice, Hannibal thought.

When he turned, that image dissolved. The tall man at the door wore sweat pants and running shoes. A towel hung around his neck, and his body shone with drying perspiration. His bare chest displayed solid muscles and very low body fat. If not for some telltale sagging skin around his waist, it could have been the body of a thirty-year old, onto which someone had spliced a deeply cleft face with a full shock of white hair. Hannibal recalled actors like Charlton Heston and Charles Bronson whose faces looked ugly to him, but were always described by women as having character. This man's face had character to spare, and charisma and the kind of energy that almost pushed you over.

“I was just finishing my workout,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Hannibal said, pulling out a card. “My name is Hannibal Jones, and I was looking for Langford Kitteridge.”

“You selling something?”

Hannibal smiled. “No sir, I…”

“Then come on in. Looking for Langford Kitteridge, eh? Well, you found him.”

Hannibal followed Kitteridge across a living room he normally wouldn't try to navigate without a map and a guide, into a kitchen many restaurants would be proud of. Kitteridge pulled down a skillet from among the collection hanging above the center island. He carried the pan to the refrigerator and dropped a chicken breast into it.

“Some lunch?”

“No thank you,” Hannibal said from the doorway. “I won't take up much of your time.”

“I look busy to you?” Kitteridge asked. He covered the chicken breast with a cooking spray and turned it over. Then he lit the gas stove under the skillet. It was early for lunch to Hannibal, but the buttery smell and the crackle of frying called out to his stomach. Kitteridge turned to him, smiling
with artificially even teeth. “Well, now that you've found me, what are you planning to do with me?”

Hannibal liked this lively old man immediately, the way he always liked people who chose living over existing. He wished he had encountered the lady of the house instead, though. If his theory was right, there might be a hurt in store for Mister Kitteridge. “Sir, I'm trying to locate a Dean Edwards. Does that name mean anything to you? Young fellow, blonde hair, kind of a round face…”

“Yes, yes I know the boy,” Kitteridge said, flipping his chicken breast with a fork. The new top side was blackened, the way Cajun chefs do catfish. “One of Joanie's foundlings. Hangs around here from time to time. Crashes in the guest apartment over the garage from time to time. In fact, I think he's been staying there the last couple of days. She even lets him drive her car sometimes. He in some kind of trouble?”

“You expect him to be?”

“Hey, you're the one come looking for him, eh?”

Smoke began to fill the room, clouding Hannibal's path to the answers he needed. “My client just needs to talk to him about some plans they made. Do you have any idea how I might find him? Or perhaps your wife might know.”

Kitteridge looked confused as he slid his steaming prize onto a plate and turned to stand at the island. Then, as if a new thought had struck him he said, “Oh. Yes, I see. Joanie. Sorry, son, there is no Mrs. Kitteridge. At least not yet, heh heh. Joanie's my niece. She's lived with me since I lost my brother in Vietnam. And yep, it's a pretty sure bet she knows where he is. She hired him over at KCS.”

“I'm sorry. KCS?”

Kitteridge dumped salsa on his chicken and attacked it with a knife and fork. “Kitteridge Computer Systems. Guess I assumed you knew who I was. I started the company, but Joanie runs it these days. In those damn towers in Falls Church. Sure you won't split this with me?”

The comfortable but sterile waiting room was at the top floor of the tower, the ninth. The air tasted canned. The door to the hall, like the door into the inner offices, was a wide pane of glass. Both bore the company logo, a stylized letter “K” with lines for whiskers and balls at the top of the two upward lines imitating cat's eyes. The receptionist reminded Hannibal of an old movie called The Stepford Wives. After exchanging the usual greetings and information with her, he sat in an ergonomically correct chair staring out wide panoramic windows and thinking how often what looked like the end of a journey turned out to be the first step.

The man rushing into the room was tall and tanned, with high cheekbones and carefully styled brown hair. In his polo shirt, Dockers and running shoes he looked like a model who had stepped out of the pages of Esquire just long enough to find out what was on Hannibal's mind. As he came within reach, he seemed to take Hannibal in around his perimeter: curly brown hair, Oakley shades, black gloves, highly shined black shoes, and finally back to Hannibal's face. Only then did he offer his hand.

“Mister Jones? I'm Mark Norton, senior systems management analyst here at KCS. We're just coming back from our lunch jog and Ms. Kitteridge isn't quite back from the health club yet. I understand you have business with her?”

Hannibal noticed Norton did his lunch jogging in the same Reebok DMX Run shoes he himself worked out in. “Actually, I asked for her only because her uncle Langford said I should.” Norton's eyes flared at the name. It was the
right entree. “My business is really with one of your employees, a Dean Edwards.”

“Dean?” Norton's face showed chagrin too easily. Hannibal couldn't tell how much of it was fake. “He's one of my systems programmers. Designs and develops accounting and financial applications for our clients. Real whiz with FOCUS and SQL.” When Hannibal didn't react he added, “Standard Query Language,” as if that would explain it all.

“I'm sure he's a real whiz,” Hannibal said, “and I assure you what I need to see him about won't affect his job performance in any way.”

“Gee, this is tough,” Norton said in the same tone men in commercials say, “this one gives me a close comfortable shave.” Then his voice lowered a bit. “I'm afraid Dean didn't show up for work today. But I'm sure Ms. Kitteridge will be happy to give you any information you need. Are you with the SEC?” Hannibal shook his head. “Treasury? Surely not the FBI.”

“Not law enforcement at all,” Hannibal said. “Really, just trying to help somebody out.” “Oh. Well.” Norton ran his fingers through his hair, exactly the way men do in dandruff ads. “Tell you what. Why don't you come down to my office? It's a little more comfortable, and you can check CNN while I try to track Joan down. Shouldn't be more than a couple minutes.”

Norton's office was indeed comfortable. In fact, it reminded Hannibal of a suburbanite's den, right down to the miniature basketball hoop over the window. Hannibal was sure he'd find a Nerf ball on the desk, but if it was there it was hidden among the tiny wire sculptures of golfers and tennis players. The bookshelf was jammed with volumes whose titles were beyond Hannibal's understanding, so looking in them would be pointless. And the television mounted in the corner was indeed tuned to CNN. If that didn't suit him he could always turn on the bookshelf stereo and see what kind of CD's Norton had loaded. A very comfortable waiting room indeed. If you were the type who didn't mind waiting.

Hannibal gave him a very generous six minutes before stepping out into the hall again. Norton had headed to the left, so he did the same. The carpet was unusually springy, and Hannibal got the feeling that Kitteridge Computer Systems went the distance to make sure its nerd population was as comfortable as possible in every way. He also imagined the aforementioned nerds put in twelve to sixteen-hour days on a regular basis. It had been that way at AOL in the early 90's when it got its start not far from where Hannibal was standing. Its headquarters over near Dulles Airport was a much larger version of KCS in terms of style. It seemed to Hannibal that the design of sweatshops had advanced dramatically in the last century.

Hannibal stopped when he heard Norton's voice. It was coming from the corner office next to Norton's. That would figure. As Hannibal inched closer he detected two other voices. The man's voice was higher than Norton's and contrite. The woman, on the other hand, spoke in commanding tones. The door was not quite closed and Hannibal inched forward until he was within view. He could only see one person from his vantage point, but it was the right one. Despite what Norton had told him, Dean Edwards was in the office today.

“Can I help you?”

Hannibal spun to stare into a pair of thick glasses wedged between a bulbous nose and a thatch of straw colored flyaway hair. The man was three inches shorter than Hannibal and seemed to be stooping even lower, as if he was cringing away from an expected attack.

“I was just waiting for…”

“Ms. Kitteridge?” The newcomer asked. “Get in line there, pizo. It's always a trial getting in to see the boss.”

“Pizo?” Hannibal held out his hand. “I've hardly heard that since I left the base in Germany. Hannibal Jones, and really I'm waiting for a chance to talk to Dean Edwards.”

“Oscar Peters,” the shorter man said, shaking Hannibal's hand vigorously. He wore jeans with a dress shirt and tie, and
a pair of expensive Adidas Salvations. “As a matter of fact, Dean works for me. Good man. You another Army brat?”

“Afraid so,” Hannibal said. “How long has Dean been with you?”

“Dean's pretty new,” Oscar said. “Why are you looking for him? You're not an old friend, are you?”

“Afraid not.” Hannibal handed Oscar a card and Oscar, unlike most people, read it closely before slipping it into his shirt pocket. “I see. And is Dean in some sort of trouble?”

From behind Hannibal a strong female voice said “Nothing to worry about.” Hannibal turned and was suddenly thankful for his sunglasses. No one could see his eyes widen as he took in the woman facing him. She was a tall woman of flawless detail. Her hair wasn't red, it was a deep, blood-tinged auburn. Her skin wasn't just fair, but creamy clear and so light as to be near translucent. Her nose and cheekbones had been carved by Michelangelo, and her eyes weren't just brown, they were polished onyx. Her perfectly tailored Donna Karan suit covered a shape seldom seen away from a fashion runway. And she wore a pair of heels that added three inches to her height, bringing her nearly to Hannibal's eye level.

“Mister Jones, I'm Joan Kitteridge. Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Actually I would,” Hannibal said. “It's a private matter and I think Mister Edwards would like it to stay that way. If I could just have five minutes with him.”

Joan nodded, her face clouded with a very convincing veil of concern. As she looked at Hannibal her whole attention seemed focused on him. “Of course. Dean will take you down to the conference room. But afterwards, would you be kind enough to stop by my office?” Then the spotlight of her attention turned to Oscar Peters, and Hannibal felt left in shadows. “Were you waiting to speak to me Oscar? Come on in.”

The door shut out all sound when Hannibal closed it behind himself. Comfortable armed swivel chairs surrounded the long conference table, with lesser chairs lined up around three walls of the room. The front of the room was dominated by a projection screen and a flat television screen. If Hannibal stretched his arms out as far as he could, his fingertips might touch the opposite edges of the TV. Dean never even looked at the table, but went straight to a chair near the far corner. His usual seat, Hannibal assumed. Dean wore the company uniform du jour: dress shirt and tie, designer jeans and a pair of exotic Brooks Radius SC running shoes. He sat as he must at company meetings, waiting for someone to tell him what he should know. So Hannibal did, as succinctly as possible.