Damaged Goods (17 page)

Sunday morning traffic locked Hannibal into a slowly rolling grid at the start of his drive. He didn't mind, because his car was his office for the day. While he watched the bumper of the Escalade moving in front of him in fits and starts he made his first call.

“Isaac, what's on your schedule today?”

“Well, I'm working security for a concert tonight,” Isaac said. “Of course, if you need me for something I can cancel.”

“I don't want to get you in trouble now that you've got a full time job, buddy.”

Isaac's smile came through the telephone speaker as clearly as if Hannibal could see him. “Now Hannibal, if it wasn't for you Anna wouldn't even be talking to me. You need me, you got me.”

When the Redskins dropped him from their rolls, Isaac Ingersoll became an abusive husband. Hannibal helped Isaac's wife and son to leave him before he did any permanent damage. Then, after getting to know him, Hannibal helped Isaac to get counseling and to being the process of reconciliation with his family. For that, Isaac would always be grateful.

“Isaac, there's a lady lying in Fairfax Inova Hospital recovering from a serious beating. Serious, as in black eyes, cracked ribs and a broken nose. She's healing, and her nose has been reset well enough that no one will ever know. I don't want any more harm to come to her.”

There was a short pause. “And if the guy who did all this shows up?” Isaac asked.

“Then you can have him.”

Like a reformed smoker or drug addict, Isaac Ingersoll had developed strong feelings about people who clung to his former vice. He was also six feet four inches tall and weighed something over three hundred twenty pounds. He was fully capable of teaching any man who battered women what it was like to be on the receiving end of a good beating. Hannibal was certain that Anita would be safe as long as Isaac was at her hospital door.

Traffic was just thinning when Hannibal called Sarge.

“How is Marquita doing, buddy?”

“It's amazing, Hannibal,” Sarge replied. “She's so much stronger than she was yesterday. I think she's ready to go out to the market this morning.”

“Glad to hear it, Sarge. Just make sure you go with her.”

“You know I'd stick with her every minute if I could,” Sarge said.

Hannibal rolled over the crest of another hill. Modest farms greeted him, and miles of pasture formed a patchwork quilt from his vantage point on the winding roads. “Well, starting today I want you to do just that, on the payroll,” Hannibal said. “Don't want to take a chance that whoever visited Anita might want to visit Marquita.”

Sarge's voice dropped an octave. “It would be a mistake for anybody to come out here and try to hurt Markie.”

Hannibal knew that Ray would be sleeping in, so he waited until he reached I-81 before that call. He was already feeling his ears pop when he turned toward Roanoke, climbing into the mountains. The road's twists became sharper and more severe, with the shoulder disappearing from time to time. The depth of the forest on all sides and on the mountains ahead of him imparted a calm he was sure no drug could match. The mist that settled on the mountain highway cooled the air. Hannibal lowered his window a bit so that he could taste that mist and inhale the sweet clean scent of the mountains. While he was lulled by the countryside he called Ray and explained where he was in his latest case.

“It sounds like you want to catch this Rod character pretty bad, Paco,” Ray said. “Not sure how I can help.”

“Then you're not thinking Ray,” Hannibal said, pushing the White Tornado into a curve fast enough to leave rubber behind on the road. “I'm pretty sure our boy's back in the area. I doubt he's stupid enough to go back to Vienna, but you've got a fleet of limousines on the road all the time, running all over the capital area, Northern Virginia and half of Maryland. All I ask is that you tell your drivers to keep an eye out for a candy apple red car that looks like a Stingray married a Caddy and they had a baby.”

“Sure thing Hannibal,” Ray said. “But speaking of getting married and all, have you popped the question to Cindy yet?”

Hannibal yanked the wheel, pulling his car back from drifting into the oncoming lane. He crested a rise and for a second it looked as if the entire world was laid out in front of him. Highland meadows and valleys, laced with streams and creeks, stretched out for miles ahead of him. The term “God's country” appeared in his mind unbidden.

“Not yet, Ray. The right time hasn't come up.”

“I'm not getting any younger, pepe,” Ray said.

Hannibal tapped his brakes as the road dived into a two-lane valley.

“I want those grandkids while I can still walk them to the park,” Ray said.

“Ray, some things you just can't rush.”

“You can call me Papa.”

“Like hell,” Hannibal said, although the thought made him grin.

Five hours after he left the hospital, Hannibal pulled to a stop under a hanging red light in Independence, in the heart of Grayson County. The highlands of the Blue Ridge Mountains looked much like New England to him. The little village had been carved out of the lush greenery of high alpine meadows and the tranquility made the twenty-five mile per hour speed limit a blessing, not something to curse about as he did so often closer to home.

After getting Hathaway's address from directory assistance, Hannibal had printed out directions from a mapping web site to guide him there. As he slid through the intersection of Routes 58 and 21 he picked up the sheet to make sure he was going the right way. He hardly saw a soul on his way, and he wondered if the entire population of Independence might still be in church.

It took only seconds to leave the town behind and return to streets lined by rail fences. Another ten minutes passed before
Hannibal pulled up in front of Hathaway's home. From there, no other houses were in sight. It seemed like a lot of house for a single man, despite the fact that its earth brown color and soft yellow trim allowed it to almost blend into the surrounding scenery. Three dormers stood out of the slanted roof above the porch that wrapped three sides of the structure. The garage behind the house was a perfect match and Hannibal could see there was a room above the garage that would serve as a studio if the owner were of an artistic bent. To a man looking for a peaceful and safe place to live, this would seem like paradise.

Hannibal listened to his feet crunching on the gravel path, then to the squeak of old wood as he mounted the stairs to the porch. Wreaths hung on each of the four front windows, and the windows of the dormers as well. Patriotic bunting hung over the front rails of the porch on both sides. Festive for the end of spring, he thought. Hannibal pressed the doorbell and stood back so that he could be viewed through the glass. After thirty seconds or so a latch turned and the door opened half way.

“Good afternoon,” Hannibal said, flashing what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Brendon Hathaway?”

Hathaway looked into Hannibal's sunglasses for a moment, and then scanned down, his body beginning to shake in a silent chuckle. “You one of them men in black? Looking for aliens?”

Hannibal thought that might not be too far wrong. Hathaway was average height but very long waisted with legs too short for his body. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and elbows out to his sides, as if he needed them for balance. His equine face held upper teeth almost twice as big as they should have been, and the long mane flowing out the back of his straw Stetson only made him look more horse-like.

“Actually, sir, I was hoping to get a few minutes of your time. I'm doing a background investigation on a Vernon Cooper. I understand that you worked with him?”

“Oh, yeah, in my last job,” Hathaway said, nodding. “Golden Pharmaceuticals made me an offer when they built out here, and I had to get away from that city life. Come on in. We can talk on the patio. You want a beer?”

Hathaway was already walking away. Hannibal followed. When he closed the door behind himself he noticed the electronic security system. Even way out here, he thought.

The flagstone patio held two umbrella-topped tables and a gas grill that Hannibal at first mistook for a kitchen gas stove. Hathaway pulled a pair of mugs from under the grill, went to a short stainless steel refrigerator and started pumping.

“You keep beer on tap out here?”

“Well, we were partying out here last night, and we'll be back here tonight,” Hathaway said, pouring foam from the top of the two mugs before setting them on a table. “The boys out this way sure love to party. There. Now we can talk like civilized people.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said. “Nothing's more civilized than having a draft in your own yard. You certainly have hit the jackpot, Mr. Hathaway.”

“Buddy, please. Everybody calls me Buddy. And yes, life is pretty damned good right now. I was able to bring something special to the table at the new company. I imagine old Vernon did the same. How's he doing?”

Hannibal took a moment to enjoy the reddish caste and slightly burnt roast aroma of his brew before tipping it to his lips. The frosted mug chilled his lips just before the smooth, malty liquid flowed between them. He didn't know that Bass ale was even available in a keg.

“I'm afraid he never achieved your level of comfort,” Hannibal said. “I'm sorry to tell you that Vernon Cooper is dead.”

Hathaway's mug stopped halfway to his mouth. It hung there for a few seconds while Hathaway seemed to consider this news. His lower lip moved forward just a bit and he nodded as if in salute to a fallen comrade. Then he raised his glass and drank down nearly half of its contents.

“That's really a shame,” Hathaway said at last. “The man was a brilliant pharmaceutical chemist. If not for him… well. You never know, do you? Anyway, at least his little girl must be doing well with his legacy. What was her name?”

“Anita,” Hannibal said, leaning forward. “But no, she's not doing all that well.”

“Well, she should be. Why didn't she make use of what he left her?”

Hannibal could hear a slight wheeze in Hathaway's chest. Perhaps he was asthmatic. “That is precisely why I'm here. Ms. Cooper knows that her father left her something of value, but he never told her what that legacy was. Now, we fear that someone has stolen or destroyed it.”

“Now that,” Hathaway said, waving his beer at Hannibal, “that would be a crying shame.”

“Indeed. That's why I have to know what her inheritance was. I can't find it for her if I don't know what I'm looking for.”

Hathaway sat back in silence, his mouth forming a hard vertical line. Hannibal stayed quiet, knowing that further pressure would not help. He imagined he could smell the beer from the night before on the table and the patio stones. Hathaway's mouth dropped open but he considered his response for a few more seconds before actually speaking.

“Sorry, Jones, but I can't tell you that.”

“Excuse me?”

“That's somebody else's business and not mine to tell,” Hathaway said. “I can't help you.”

Hannibal took his time rising to his feet. “I don't think you understand. This is for his daughter. If it's anybody's business it's hers. The guy who stole from her took advantage, and took things that probably can never be recovered. The one thing I can do is get back what her father wanted her to have. And you're saying you won't help?”

“I'm saying this is my town and I intend to keep it that way. And I'm saying it's time for you to leave.”

Independence lacked even a single hotel, and Hannibal was quite pleased about that. He had booked one of the four rooms in the Davis-Bourne Inn, a Queen Anne Victorian mansion that was earning its living as a bed and breakfast. After changing his clothes he had enjoyed a fine lunch on the wraparound porch watching a young couple sharing lustful stares on the porch swing. Then he moved to a rocker and pulled out his cell phone. He was admiring the landscaped grounds and colorful gardens when he heard a familiar voice at the other end.