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  “You shoot in Beta format?” Hannibal asked.

  “Right,” Kate said. “Beta SP actually. The boys shoot on little twenty-minute cassettes, but each reporter can archive their stories on one of these sixties. You know something about this stuff?”

  “Not really,” Hannibal said, watching the blurred images fly past on a small monitor. “Do people ask you to do this all the time?”

  The images slowed and an anchor came into view, introducing the story. “Actually it’s pretty rare,” Kate said. “Not many people even know we can do this. But I had to print out a still for somebody else from this particular story a few days ago. In fact it was Monday night, not long after we aired it. The usual thing, they wanted a clear picture of a relative. I assume that’s not your purpose.”

  “No, I need copies to distribute. The person we’re looking for has come up missing.”

  “Oh, well in that case you want more than a print.” Servomotors whined as Kate put the tape player into normal speed. She pushed her wheeled chair a few feet to the side and punched a button, starting a computer. “Once you pick out the image I’ll copy it to a floppy. You can get as many copies of that digital image as you want from lots of places.”

  “Appreciate it,” Hannibal said, watching the action move along, watching Bea come into view, and the zoom he’d seen before, to lock onto Dean’s face. “That’s our boy.”

  “Really?” Kate said, stretching the word for out for three or four seconds. She was moving the tape forward and back. Seen one frame at a time, it looked very much like a piece of motion picture film going past.

  “A lot to choose from,” Hannibal said. “I thought the sequence was shorter.”

  “At thirty frames a second, there are a lot of images to choose from. But this is the best one.” She pushed more buttons, and a variety of hums and clicks started. “So what’s up with this fellow? He in some kind of trouble or something?”

  “Like I said, he’s missing,” Hannibal said. “If there’s more to the story, I don’t know it yet.”

  Kate lapsed into silence while she gathered the print of Dean’s face and the floppy disc she had loaded the image onto. Then she left the room. Hannibal followed her into a cubicle barely big enough to stand and turn around in. The desk she sat at was covered with papers, most of which bore a small precise handwriting he assumed was hers. She gestured to a chair in the next cubicle, and Hannibal dragged it over. He sat, crossed his legs, flipped the top page on the forms pad over and began to fill in the requested information.

  “Not yet,” Kate repeated. “Well, the woman who came Monday wanted a shot of the same boy.” Direct and to the point. Hannibal liked that. “She said she was related, but now I have to wonder.”

  Hannibal kept writing. He wasn’t sure yet how he should handle this. What was this young reporter after?

  Kate moved a bit closer. Not the kind of closeness that implies intimacy, but rather the kind that applies a subtle pressure. “Look, just tell me if there’s a story here, huh? I don’t want to do festivals in the park the rest of my life.”

  Now he knew. He didn’t think he had anything newsworthy, but this woman might be helpful if she thought there could be something in it for her. He gave his answer careful consideration, because lying would be counterproductive. “Miss Andrews, I’ve been on this case only a few hours. Right now it’s a man who’s run away without telling his fiancee. Not much there, but it could be anything. What if he’s running from the law? Or from the mob? Or the woman you met earlier in the week could be his sister, separated at birth, searching for him.”

  “Not likely,” Kate said. “This woman looked a couple decades older than your boy there.”

  “Really?” Hannibal said. He sat quite still, his hands on the arms of his chair, but the middle finger of his left hand began to tap up and down. “Blonde woman, on the thin side?”

  “That’s right, bottle blonde. Brown eyes. Long, conservative cut flowered dress. Makeup carefully applied. And there is something going on here.”

  “Won’t know until I find him will I?” Hannibal asked, handing over the completed form. Kate scanned the form the same way she had scanned Hannibal. He braced to stand, but her upraised hand stopped him.

  “Just two questions. Please. First, is Jones your real name?” In response Hannibal handed her one of his simple white cards. There wasn’t much there: His name, address, telephone number and the word “Troubleshooter” in bold block letters.

  “I think I may have heard something about you,” Kate said. “All right. If. If this turns out to be a story that could be of general interest. If it does, will you call me?”

  Hannibal stood and removed his glasses. She stared at his eyes, the way they often did. “If this ends up on the news in any way, I’ll do what I can to make sure you’re the reporter who breaks it, okay?”

  “Fair enough,” Kate said rising and extending her hand. Hannibal accepted it and the strong handshake that came with it. “And you’re a story in yourself, aren’t you? A black man with blue eyes. Or are they?”

  Hannibal drove just two blocks away from the television station before he pulled to the curb again. His instincts told him that Kate was a good reporter, and right now that was a bad thing. He had gotten lucky and tripped over a clue to Dean’s location. But she had the clue as well, and if she got involved she might chase it all away.

  He flipped on the interior light and unfolded the form he had pocketed on his way to Kate’s desk. It had been on top of the pad of forms he filled out. Feeling a bit childish, Hannibal pulled a pencil from his glove compartment and began rubbing the side of the point across the form. Of course there was no way to be sure the woman who wanted Dean’s picture was the last person to fill one of these out. But it seemed a pretty secure guess.

  A woman’s flowery script slowly came into view. The name was Mary Irons. The address looked to be a hotel room on Richmond Highway, just south of Alexandria. That made sense if Hannibal’s theory was correct. He turned off the light and put his car into gear. He knew Kate could find the same address in Channel 8’s files in the morning. She might be tempted to go looking for the thin blonde woman and chase her away. With luck, he could pin Dean down tonight, before Kate went looking for the mystery woman tomorrow.

  On his way through the darkened streets, Hannibal popped an old Elton John CD into his player and began to rethink his position. Why would Dean’s accomplice need his picture from the news? Perhaps just to prove to him he wasn’t keeping a low enough profile. Was that a good reason to tell him to move on? Maybe, but the idea wasn’t hanging together as well as it once had.

  It made even less sense as Hannibal pulled into the Alexandria Motel’s parking area. The motel was one long building, one story tall and one room wide, sitting with its short side facing the street but at an off angle. Its front doors faced the back of a brick building, a Chinese restaurant judging from the smell of the dumpsters. Peeling white paint covered the structure, and a row of narrow pillars supported a short overhang in front of the dozen or so doors. In the dying sunlight the place almost looked haunted, but he figured the only spirit around there was the ghost of disuse. Hannibal drove past the target door and parked at the far end of the drive. When he shut his car door it created an ominous echo, the sound bouncing between the motel and the back of the restaurant.

  Hannibal knocked on the door of the room registered to Mary Irons, then stepped back from it. He had no idea what to expect but he was sure of one thing. No successful confidence man or woman would stay here. This was not the motel room of anyone fleecing wealthy marks.

  When the door opened inward Hannibal was faced with another surprise, a man wearing only jeans and a belligerent expression.

  “Yeah?” was all the man said. He was Hannibal’s height but a bit bulkier. Steel gray hair topped a swarthy Mediterranean face. Ink black eyebrows formed a pitched roof above dark eyes that were always looking for trouble. Hannibal guessed they had seen a lo
t of it. A mass of steel wool cluttered the man’s chest. A tattoo of a rose covered his left shoulder, and a chain tattoo wrapped his right biceps.

  “You must be Mister Irons,” Hannibal said with a small smile.

  “So?”

  Friendly sort, Hannibal thought. “I need to speak to Mary if you don’t mind.”

  The man squared his shoulders, sending a universal message. “She ain’t here. Beat it.” His breath threw the odor of stale beer into Hannibal’s face.

  “Look, this is a matter of some importance.” Hannibal held his hands out in a gesture of peace. He hoped it was less obvious that he was also bracing for an attack.

  “I said get lost,” Irons said, his voice low. His right foot moved forward and the heel of his right hand slammed out for Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal stood his ground and clamped both his hands over Irons’. By twisting slightly he locked Irons’ elbow. Then Hannibal leaned forward, not hard but just enough. Startled, the bigger man found himself driven to his knees.

  “Who’s there, Harry?” A woman’s voice called from inside.

  Harry looked up at Hannibal and shook his head from side to side. It was a small movement, indicating that he was ready to concede rather than have his woman see him in this position. Well, no point in embarrassing him. Besides, Hannibal wondered how much he knew. He released Harry’s hand and raised his voice. “I’m Hannibal Jones and I’d like just a moment of your time, ma’am. It’s about your photography order.”

  Harry snapped up to his full height. Hannibal stood on the other side of the portal in the outside world and watched Harry’s eyes, as Harry watched his. The standoff lasted forever. Then, three minutes later, the woman spoke again very close behind Harry.

  “Honey, would you excuse us for a minute? Please?” Harry turned and although Hannibal couldn’t see his face, he could imagine what was there. The woman raised a hand to his cheek, smiled and whispered, “It’s all right. I promise.”

  Harry walked back into the shabby room and the woman stepped forward across the threshold.

  “Mary Irons?” Hannibal asked.

  “Who are you and why are you here? No one knows me here.”

  Hannibal handed her his card, and waited for her to read it and try to imagine his purpose. If she did, she was not about to let him know.

  “What’s this about, Mister Jones?” she asked, easing the door closed behind her.

  “I think you know. You wanted a photo of Dean Edwards. Then you went and visited him. I’d like to know why.”

  She took a minute to appear to be searching her memory. “Dean Edwards? I’m not sure I know him. Friend of yours?”

  The harsh shadows of twilight didn’t help her one bit. Dark roots held her thin yellow hair in place. Makeup could not conceal the lines of worry, of fear, of living etched into her face. Not a hard woman, he decided, not a criminal. Yet there was a steel rod at her center, deep down. And much of her surface tenderness had been worn away somehow. All that aside, he was certain that she was no confidence woman. She was, in fact, an abysmal liar.

  “I’m not accusing you of a crime, ma’am. But I have an eyewitness who says you were at his house Saturday morning from about ten-thirty to maybe eleven a.m. You waited until his fiancee had left for a shopping trip. Shall I describe what you were wearing?”

  She was jumpy as a caged hamster, and she reacted to his words as if they were a series of blows. Her china blue eyes appeared chipped. “No, that won’t be necessary. I guess you must mean that boy I saw Saturday. He wasn’t who I thought he was.”

  “Really? And who did you think he was?” Hannibal turned away and took a small step away to ease the pressure on her. She followed, maintaining a constant two-foot distance. Then they were walking together.

  “Someone else,” she said. “Someone I knew a long time ago. I’ve been away a long time, Mister Jones. People change over the course of a decade.”

  Now that she was talking, Hannibal decided to be quiet for a minute to see what fell out. Most people hate silence. It is often the interrogator’s best weapon. While he waited, he examined her body language and posture. She had been a hellcat once, he decided, but something had squeezed that out of her. From what little he knew of Dean Edwards, this woman was more likely to be one of his old victims than his old partner. Someone had hurt her deeply, and it could well have been Dean.

  Just as he was about to give up on quiet, she said, “Look, Mister, I don’t want any trouble and I hope you won’t tell that young man where I am. Harry and me, we’re trying to keep a low profile here, okay?”

  She didn’t know Dean was gone. She probably thought he sent Hannibal looking for her. They turned and headed back toward the door. It was open a crack and Hannibal saw one of Harry’s eyes in the dark space. When they reached the end of their little stroll, Hannibal positioned himself so that the woman’s body blocked Harry’s view of him. He handed her one of his cards.

  “If you think of anything you think someone ought to know, give me a call, okay?” he said. “I don’t know what this Dean Edwards might be involved in, but it could reach out and touch you too.”

  Sitting in his car in the gathering gloom, Hannibal took a moment to wonder why on earth he had felt the need for that burst of honesty. He had no idea who Mary and Harry were or how they tied into Dean’s story. He didn’t think they could be hiding him, but they must be part of his past. Unless of course she was telling him the truth.

  Hannibal turned the key, listening for a moment to the engine’s smooth purr, but before he could put the car into gear a pair of hands slapped down on the hood. Harry Irons stood in front of him, as if suicide were his only option to prove his superiority. The woman was nowhere in sight. Hannibal turned off the engine, tugged his gloves on tighter, and opened the door.

  “Do we have unfinished business?” he asked, stepping out of the car.

  “Not like you think,” Harry said. He leaned back against the car and pulled out a Zippo lighter. He dragged hard and deep on a Winston, letting the smoke escape his nose. Hannibal saw Harry as a man of traditions. This was a ritual to set up a conversation. Man to man talk. Hannibal leaned against the door, his arms crossed.

  “You ever done time, Jones?”

  “Can’t say I have, Harry,” Hannibal replied. “But some close friends have told me what it does to you.”

  Harry’s face clouded over and he stared at his feet. He held his cigarette like Sinatra. “You got a woman, Jones?”

  “Yes, I have a woman.”

  “Love her?” Harry asked, looking at Hannibal out the corner of his eye.

  Hannibal grinned. “As a matter of fact I do.”

  “He could have any young chippy he wants, you know,” Harry said, his eyes on a cloud in the night sky. “Don’t bring him around here to take mine. I been taking care of Mary for almost a year now. It hasn’t been easy for her. But she’s got what she needs.”

  “Then he’s out of her past,” Hannibal said.

  Harry nodded and shifted his feet. “She’s crazy about him, you know. I mean, whatever he did to her, he makes her crazy. But he’s too young for her. I could see that.”

  Hannibal sighed in sympathy. Harry nodded, and sucked hard on his cigarette.

  “So you’ve met Edwards,” Hannibal said.

  “We saw him from across the street,” Harry said through clenched teeth. “She was following him like a lovesick puppy. Him and his designer damn suit and his candy apple red fucking Corvette with its faggot-sounding vanity plates.”

  Hannibal fought to control his breathing. Instead of surprise, he forced a smile onto his face and released a little chuckle. “Faggot-sounding plates,” he repeated, as if it was the funniest thing he’d heard that day.

  Harry joined in the laughter. “Yeah buddy. Unless the other girl’s name is Kitty. Is that it?”

  Hannibal never had to answer. The natural tunnel formed by the motel and the restaurant it faced carried one soft word to them. “Harry?”
At the sound of his name he stood faster than he would have liked, then affected a relaxed attitude Hannibal recognized.

  “I’m going to get back there. She needs me.”

  “I think she does,” Hannibal said, extending a hand. “Go take care of her. And take care of yourself.”

  5

  Monday

  The telephone waited until almost nine-thirty to ring. Not bad for a Monday morning. By then Hannibal had run his five miles, showered, brewed a pot of coffee from his stash of Hawaiian Kona Fancy beans, eaten his Cheerios and pulled on his working clothes. Now he sat at his desk dealing with the paperwork the government uses to keep the small businessman in his place. Of course, most of those papers were really streams of electrons now, and he was finally becoming pretty comfortable maintaining his records on his computer. Steam curled from his second cup of coffee and a Quincy Jones album sprinkled the room with soft but pulsing background music. When the phone rang, Hannibal smiled at it for waiting until he was ready for it.

  “Mister Jones? It’s Janet. Can you come out here? I need some help. Can I hire you?” The words poured out of her mouth like water from a burst dam, jolting Hannibal into rigid attention.

  “Slow down a bit and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “He’s here,” she said. Keeping her voice low didn’t cover the panic. “Ike is here. He showed up here at work not much after I arrived. I’m afraid he’ll do something.”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  Janet was having trouble catching her breath. “I’m at the Springfield DMV office, over on Franconia. He keeps coming in and going out again. Now he’s just standing there by the door, staring at my cage. I just know he’ll do something crazy.”

  Hannibal thought about facing Janet’s abusive husband again. It was not a fun thought. “What about the police, Janet? Has your office called them?”