“Oh my God, where is he?” Queenie asked, shaking another cigarette out of her pack.
“He probably just came back for the car,” Hannibal said. “And you’re not going to smoke in my car.”
“No, no, no,” she said. “If he was OK, he would have called. He wouldn’t let more than twenty-four hours pass without calling me.” She stared at the dashboard for a second, realized that what she was looking for wasn’t there, and fumbled for her matches.
“The car shouldn’t be hard to find. Hey, did you hear me?”
Queenie managed to get the matchbook out of her pocket. She rolled down her window and struck a match. Hannibal’s right arm snapped out, his gloved hand closing around the match and cigarette, snatching them both away.
“You are not going to smoke in my car,” he repeated. “Now, does Ben own the car?”
“The Saturn? That’s my car.”
“Great,” Hannibal said, making another turn to get pointed back toward the Cochrans’ hotel. “Do you carry a copy of the registration?”
“The registration stays in the car.”
“Too bad,” Hannibal said, tapping buttons on his steering wheel. The car speakers put out the sound of numbers being pressed on a telephone.
“Are you making a phone call?”
“Yes, I’m about to report your car stolen. I have a friend who’s a chief of detectives with a nearby police department and I think he could put some emphasis on it. This would have been a lot easier with the VIN number.”
“Oh. Hey, is that number on the insurance card? I’ve got that in my purse.”
“Good girl,” Hannibal said just before making the telephone connection. When the answer came from the other end, Hannibal said, “Orson? This is Hannibal.”
“That was quick. You get something out of the wife?”
Rissik’s remark made Hannibal regret that he had the phone on speaker. Queenie opened her mouth to speak, but Hannibal held up a hand to silence her.
“I got sidetracked, but it’s related, and I need your help.”
“So what else is new?”
“Here’s what’s new,” Hannibal said. “You’re not the only one still interested in that particular death. I’ve got a prime suspect and somebody else was following said suspect before I came on the scene.”
“I see. And is our follower a mob guy?”
Hannibal looked at Queenie. Her eyes grew to saucer size and her breathing became shallow panting. He took the deer-in-the-headlights response to mean that Ben did have organized crime connections.
“Don’t really know, pal. But I think if we find the missing car it might yield some forensic evidence that could lead right back to my suspect and then I think we could possibly tie him to that killing.”
After a pause, Rissik said, “Could? Possibly? You know, Jones, you and me we play this game where you BS me for what you think is a good reason. You pretend to be doing something for me, to help the law, and I pretend to believe you.”
“Aww, you’re breaking the illusion, Chief.”
Rissik chuckled. “Yeah, and I promise never to do it again. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I knew.”
“Seriously, Orson, I promise you that I’ll never ask you to do anything you’ll regret later,” Hannibal said. He could feel Rissik nodding on the other end of the phone. He figured that his friend was just clarifying the ground rules, which he thought was important in any long-term relationship.
“OK,” Rissik said, “What can you give me on the missing vehicle.”
“I got the registered owner’s name and address. I got the year, make, model, color, and VIN number of the car. But right this minute, I’m also fighting my way through midtown traffic so if you promise not to ask any embarrassing questions, I’ll let the missing guy’s wife give you the details.”
“Good,” Rissik said. “I can get a description of the man too, just in case he’s sitting in a cell or a hospital somewhere under a wrong name.”
“Cool.” Then Hannibal turned to Queenie. “Go ahead. Just talk to the dashboard. Read what’s on the insurance card and tell him whatever else might help.”
Hannibal just pulled up in front of the Ramada because he didn’t want to park. If he parked, Queenie might think he wanted to chat with her and he didn’t really want any more of her company. There were types of women Hannibal just didn’t like being around. That list included lonely women, lying women, greedy women, women who smoked, and women involved in ongoing cases. Queenie Cochran was at least four of those types rolled into one package, and she was a good candidate to go five for five.
“Just come up for one drink,” she was saying. “Just long enough for me to get settled in. I’m kind of, you know, without Benny around.”
“I understand but I have things that I have to get done if we’re going…” Hannibal was interrupted by the telephone ringing. He tapped the button, wondering if Rissik could have already found the missing car, perhaps in a city impound lot.
“Hannibal? How you doing honey?” Cindy’s voice coming out of the speakers caused Queenie’s mouth to drop open and her eyes to swing from side to side the way eyes sometimes do when people are caught someplace they know they shouldn’t be.
“Hang on a minute, Cindy,” Hannibal said, staring at Queenie. “I have a client here, but she was just leaving.”
Queenie took the hint better and faster than he expected, waving good-bye and closing the door with care rather than slamming it. Did she feel as if she had been caught poaching on another woman’s preserve? Had she been trying to?
“OK, we’re alone,” Hannibal said, pulling away from the curb. Except for the Russian wiretap, he thought.
“Your client’s a woman? What’s the case?”
“Missing husband,” Hannibal said, diving under a yellow light and pointing his car toward home. “Actually it’s related to the bigger case I told you about.”
“Right. Well, I just wanted to touch base with you about tonight.”
A tiny Mini slipped in front of him, making him miss the light and trapping him at a corner clogged with pedestrians. “Seriously, honey, this case has me so tied down…”
“Don’t sweat it, lover. I wanted to let you know I’ll be looking at a couple more houses when I leave the office.”
The light turned green, but the walkers didn’t seem to notice. “After work? Why can’t you do all this during the day?”
“Well, dear, some people just won’t let you in their homes unless they’re there.”
Hannibal slowly nosed into the intersection. “Well, I hope you see something you like. And don’t forget to eat something.”
“Don’t worry. After we check the houses, Reggie said we could stop someplace for something to eat while we go over some paperwork.”
“Reggie?” Hannibal said, slowly trying to part the tide of humanity in front of his car, using his bumper. “Is that the Realtor?”
“Yeah. Reggie Johnson. Didn’t I tell you? He’s being real sweet to spend so much time on me.”
The old woman really couldn’t move any faster. The light changed. He was stuck behind it again. “Damn it!”
“Hannibal?”
“Not you, sweetheart,” he said. “The traffic.”
“Oh, okay. Well, listen, I just wanted to let you know what was going on. Much to do, and I know you’re busy too. Talk to you tomorrow, baby. Love you.”
“Love you too, babe. Talk to you later.” He disconnected and the music returned. The light turned green.
“Damn it!”
Not the traffic.
This time Hannibal didn’t even bother to resist Ivanovich. He went home, changed his clothes, and went straight to his office. He was greeted by an upraised pistol. Ivanovich sat behind the desk as before, headphones on. Hannibal locked the door behind himself and walked straight toward Ivanovich. He reached behind the desk, turned off the stereo, and planted his palms on his desk.
“This ain’t working,” he said. “I got to be able to work in here, you got to get on with your life someday, and we both need to be able to relax. So, let me tell you how this is going to work. Let’s agree that you could kill me anytime you want to. You know it, and now I know it. But you don’t want to; because I’m the only man on earth who might get you the answers you want. Right?”
Invanovich leaned back and gave a tentative nod.
“Besides, you kill gangsters, and I’m not one of them,” Hannibal said. “Nobody cares about them, so life’s pretty easy after the fact. If you kill me, you’ll be on the run for the rest of your life. Second, I fucked up in here last night. It was a mistake to go for your pistol. It wouldn’t have changed anything if it had worked. You’ve still got people on Cindy, and I won’t risk her life. So let’s agree that if I do anything stupid again, your boys will take her for that long walk and you know I couldn’t stand that. So I’ll stop trying to figure a way around your control position and focus on getting the goods on Dani Gana. Once I do, you can pull your dogs off my woman’s tail. OK?”
Ivanovich gave another slow nod, but his expression was still unsure.
“Cool. So you can put that thing down now.” Ivanovich didn’t move. “Or don’t. But I got to get back there to check my messages. Look, we have safeguards in place so we can trust each other. Or at least pretend to.”
Ivanovich stood, slipping his gun into his waistband.
“Thank you,” Hannibal said. “One more thing. I can’t eat Chinese one more time. Why don’t you order us a pizza while I take care of some of this administrative crap? Then after we eat I’ll give you a full report on what I learned today. I think I made a little progress.”
Ivanovich called in their order while Hannibal went through his mail. Then he listened to his voice-mail messages and responded to several e-mails. By the time he had finished with those minor jobs a delivery boy was knocking on the door. Hannibal paid the boy and carried the scorching hot cardboard box to his desk. Then he returned to his seat and Ivanovich pulled the guest chair to the desk. Hannibal cranked the stereo up again. Over pizza and sodas, Hannibal shared the events of the day. He had not spoken to Nikita Petrova’s widow because the Cochran lead seemed more promising. They continued to discuss the case as the vodka came out again. Ivanovich filled his glass twice for every one Hannibal emptied, yet Hannibal felt the effects more. As the alcohol relaxed him, his conversation became more direct.
“On the basis of the available evidence, I got to tell you I’m still not convinced that Viktoriya’s father killed himself. However, I am willing to accept on faith that you didn’t kill him.”
“So you believe me?” Ivanovich asked as he poured more liquor into Hannibal’s glass.
“Until and unless the evidence calls you a liar,” Hannibal said, picking up his glass and swallowing half its contents. Ivanovich emptied his and refilled it.
“Well, it does not really matter. This is not about me. This is about Viktoriya.”
Hannibal could feel the industrial beat of the music deep in his chest and it seemed to strengthen him. He pointed at Ivanovich, working to keep his words clear and distinct. “That, my Russian friend, is bullshit. Bull. Shit. This is all about you and your ego. You think you’re Sir Lancelot or somebody. You think that saving this fair, innocent flower will somehow redeem you. Admit it.”
When Ivanovich shook his head, Hannibal thought he could smell the man’s despair. “If I could fix myself I would try, but it’s too late for me.”
“Jesus, man, you listen too much of that Nine Inch Nails crap. Or maybe it’s just a Russian thing to be so damned bleak. You think you earned all that angst? Shit. You ever heard of Corrosion of Conformity?” Hannibal got up, and started scanning the CDs in the rack on the wall.
“I know this band,” Ivanovich said, perking up as if they had struck a point of commonality. When Hannibal found the disc he wanted, he replaced one of the CDs in the player’s five-disc tray with the band he had just named.
“There’s a line in one of their songs that I believe. ‘In time, what’s deserved always gets served.’ That goes for you and Viktoriya too. I’m telling you, if this was about the girl it would be a whole different case.”
“Different how?”
Hannibal sipped his drink again. He didn’t taste it so much as he felt it. His tongue, he thought, was getting numb. Perhaps this was a message from his body that he had had enough.
“I’ll tell you how,” Hannibal said, carefully sitting back down. “I’d be trying to get a more rounded view of her world. I’d be checking her mother more closely to see if she was running toward something or away from something else. And I’d definitely check out her mom’s new fellow, this Yakov character.”
“Yakov?” Ivanovich asked. “Yakov Sidorov? Big bushy eyebrows?”
“That’s the guy.” Hannibal said. “You know him?”
“Know of him?” Ivanovich jostled Hannibal aside to open his photo album. After flipping a few pages he came to a collection of what Hannibal would call party shots. Men and women were dressed up, drinking, laughing, and, in some of the pictures, playing cards. The fun was happening in a pretty fancy place with what looked like red silk covering the walls. He ran his fingertips over one of the photos. It was creased with age, as if someone had carried it around a while before putting it in the album for safekeeping. The picture featured a younger Viktoriya Petrova staring right into the camera, while her mother stood behind her, looking away at a man with such love in her eyes he had to assume it was her husband. He looked to be a jovial sort, and he was dark. Not dark like Gana or Hannibal, but like Omar Sharif in his prime.
“Here he is,” Ivanovich said, pointing to another photo. “He was Nikita’s doctor and, I believe, his friend as well. In fact, Sidorov was a doctor to many in the business.”
“Mob doctor,” Hannibal said. “There’s always a guy who’s inside but not really. A guy who doesn’t feel the need to report the gunshot wounds he treats, and if a patient doesn’t want to go to the emergency room after a beating or stabbing, well, he won’t press the point.”
“Exactly. He was treasured for his expertise but more for his discretion.”
It was the man Hannibal had met all right, and from the pictures it was clear that he really was a family friend. His eyes slid over the photos almost as if they formed a motion picture of another time, another place. But what place?
“These all appear to be taken in the same swanky club. Where are they?”
“The Russia House, up on Connecticut Avenue. The best bar and restaurant in the city if you happen to be Russian.”
“And I see there is gambling too.”
“Well, there are private rooms.” Ivanovich said, turning a page. “If they know you, you can always get a room for your group. This is where you go to play preference. See? Here. It is the game for serious card players in Russia.”
“Whoa!” Hannibal sprang to his feet, and regretted it immediately. He felt dizzy for a moment, but focused on the new photo to steady himself. “Who is that guy? The one in the middle of the table.”
“I do not know him.”
“Everybody else sure does,” Hannibal said. “Dr. Sidorov, Petrova, and isn’t that Gana standing behind him? I thought he was new to the area.”
“He left Washington years ago,” Ivanovich said. “I never expected him to return.”
Hannibal’s index finger circled the photo. “Look at that. Sidorov, Gana, Petrova, they’re all looking at that guy in the middle.”
“They must all be friends,” Ivanovich said. “I admit I never looked that closely at this one but, he almost looks like the leader of the pack here.”
“Yeah, or at least the center of attention.” Hannibal said, tapping the picture with his fingertips. “And that woman practically on his lap, she’s clearly more than a friend.”
“The blonde?” Ivanovich asked.
“Yeah, but she’s a redhead these days. You can’t miss that body. That girl is Queenie Cochran.”