Hannibal Jones - 04 - Damaged Goods Page 8

  “Sarge, this is Hannibal.”

  “I recognized the voice, man. I’m working you know. What’s up?”

  “Listen, can you get someone to cover for you for the rest of the night?”

  “Are you kidding?” Sarge asked. “Man, I just got here.”

  “I know, but I need your help, brother. Got a job here that’s liable to take all night, but it calls for a man who can be tough and who knows how to go easy too.”

  “You mean right now?” Sarge growled into the phone.

  “It’s pretty important. Besides, how much can they need a bouncer on a Wednesday night?”

  When they met, Sarge was homeless, hanging at the shelter where Hannibal volunteered. Sarge had stood with him, fought with him against junkies, winos, and in he end, the drug dealer whose living depended on a crack house. Today Sarge had both a home and a steady job, but Hannibal knew the risks they faced together bonded them in a way that made Sarge’s answer absolutely predictable.

  “Where you at?”

  After sharing Marquita’s address, Hannibal considered the present challenge of cleaning her up. He decided it had to be a multi-step process. First, he lowered her head to the relatively clean pillow. He pulled the down comforter from her bed and folded it twice lengthwise on the floor. Next, he lifted her from the bed, startled at how light she was, and lowered her sleeping form onto the comforter. Then he pulled the sheets from the bed. In the fully finished basement he found both a laundry area and a linen closet. After shoving the soiled sheets into the washer he went back upstairs, made the bed and transferred his charge to the fresh, crisp sheets. Her faint moan implied that even in her sleep she appreciated the difference.

  The next step was to clean out the available poisons. Starting with a sweep of the bedroom and progressing to a full circuit of the house, Hannibal picked up a veritable saloon’s worth of bottles, most of which had been opened but only one or two already empty. The woman was partial to serious whiskey - Jack Daniels, Yukon Jack, Jim Beam, Chivas Regal, and Courvoisier. He found a trash bag under the kitchen sink and filled it with the bottles.

  As he opened the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom, Hannibal wondered if his actions would meet Dr. Roberts’ definition of compulsive behavior. Here he was, scanning a total stranger’s shelves for drugs that might offer themselves to abuse. He supposed she could sue him for emptying prescription bottles into her toilet. Had she asked for a guardian angel? The truth was that he had shoved himself into her life without invitation, or even permission. His internal monologue halted when his fingers wrapped around an unmarked vial. It contained white pills, marked “Roche” on one side with a small number “2” under the word.

  The doorbell jerked his head around.

  “Sarge,” he said, pocketing the bottle as he jogged down the stairs. A grim face greeted him when he opened the door. Sarge stood in a black, sleeveless tee shirt and jeans, a baseball bat in his right fist.

  “All right, what’s the problem here?”

  Movement spotted over Sarge’s shoulder froze Hannibal’s answer in his throat. Was someone actually crouching behind the car parked across the street? Hannibal pulled Sarge inside while his left hand eased toward the holster under is right arm. The world became very still, except for the stuttering crackle of crickets. He slipped his sunglasses from his face, staring hard at the BMW across the street. After a full minute of staring his eyes ached, but he saw no signs of life. Irritated with himself, he drew Sarge inside and closed the door.

  “Man, something’s sure got you jumpy,” Sarge said. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m sorry,” Hannibal said, heading for the kitchen. “I thought I saw something. Been thinking I was being followed, but not really sure.”

  Hannibal pulled a glass out of a cabinet and rinsed it several times before filling it with water. It carried the sharp taste of chlorine and fluoride and all the other things they add to city water to kill germs and discourage human consumption. While he drank, Sarge looked around the kitchen, and then glanced into the living room.

  “Maid’s day off?”

  “Maid’s month off I think,” Hannibal said after his drink. “The woman who lives here, she’s in bad shape. She needs looking after, and I needed somebody who’d stay here all night and baby-sit. Somebody I could trust to stay alert, and could also trust to not do anything to harm her.”

  Sarge nodded his comprehension. “Bad shape? In what way?”

  To answer, Hannibal waved Sarge to follow him. They mounted the spiraling staircase in silence, as if they were walking through a library, or a morgue. At the bedroom, Hannibal eased the door open. A narrow shaft of light fell across Marquita’s bed. Now that she was finally resting, her features appeared delicate, frail, the way Hannibal imagined Snow White when he was a child.

  “She’s been abused, buddy,” Hannibal whispered. “Physically. Emotionally. Sexually if I understand the story. The man responsible is the man I’ve got to find to help my client. Can you watch over her for the night?”

  “God, she looks so helpless. Fragile, like a doll, you know?”

  As if she sensed that she was being talked about, Marquita’s eyes fluttered open for a moment. Hannibal watched Sarge’s rough face soften as he stared into Marquita’s fawn colored eyes. He seemed to make a connection there. Perhaps it was the empathy of a man, homeless not long ago, who could see this woman as downtrodden despite her apparent financial status. While they watched, the ghost of a smile touched the edge of Marquita’s lips and she slipped back into sleep.

  “Don’t you worry,” Sarge said. “I’ll take care of her.”

  -8-

  FRIDAY

  Hannibal’s tee shirt was soaked by the time he was approaching the end of his morning run. He felt a little stitch in his left side, but nowhere near enough to slow him down. It was a good day. He had started on time, and would finish a little early. He took a perverse pride in his own anal retentive nature, suspecting that certain people he waved to five mornings every week used him to determine whether or not they were on time for work.

  It was getting harder to keep his breathing quiet, but he tried anyway, relishing the morning sounds and not wanting to blot them out of his own ears. Anacostia was one of the roughest of urban inner city areas, yet it still offered an early morning symphony for those awake to hear it. Even there, birds chirped and whistled and sang at the edge of dawn. However, the main theme there was carried by groaning garbage trucks, and the taxicab horn section. The overhead whine of jet engines replaced the woodwinds, and all the sounds melded together in a way neither nature nor an orchestra could imitate.

  As he reached his own block Hannibal slowed to a walk. The view to his home was a path of brick buildings, cracked sidewalks and broken bottles. This area of the nation’s capital was rundown and generally impoverished, yet it tried hard to cling to its dignity. Hannibal loved his neighborhood because it was a real neighborhood. He knew his neighbors, and his neighbors knew him.

  As rough as it was, it was a neighborhood in transition, within a city in transition. Ahead lay a few blocks of abandoned or condemned buildings, many still inhabited. But a few blocks to his left stood a series of new, high-priced town houses. If he ran in the other direction, crossed the Anacostia Bridge and went a few blocks up Potomac Avenue he would bump into the congressional office buildings that flank the Capitol, less than two miles away. In Washington, it was an easy walk from the halls of power to the abandoned halls of slum apartments.

  Having almost regained his breath, Hannibal leaned on the sandstone banister and mounted the steps up to the stoop at number 2313. Hannibal remembered the first time he walked up those steps. The building was a crack house then, and the owner had paid him to flush the squatters out. He looked down at the dark stain on the stoop left there by his own blood after his first attempt to do his job. He had returned with a small team of men gathered from the homeless shelter where he volunteered. Sarge and the others h
ad helped him take the building back. Ray, a former client, had helped too. Afterward, he had decided to stay there, and the others did too. They had fought for the building and found a home.

  Closing the outer door behind him, Hannibal glanced to the right out of habit to read his own name on his office door. Then he walked left around the central stairway. He unlocked and opened the fourth of five doors down the side of the hall. Once inside he took a deep breath. It was refreshingly cool inside, since the owner had replaced the ancient boiler with a modern furnace and installed central air conditioning.

  The flat wasn’t luxurious, but it was just enough for Hannibal. Big, sliding double doors stood in for walls between the rooms. With all of them open he could see through his two extra rooms to his bedroom at the front of the building. To his right, past the bathroom door, his small but functional kitchen waited. For just a moment he debated with himself whether breakfast or a shower should come first, but the shower won out.

  * * * * *

  After arranging to meet with Anita in the afternoon, Hannibal drove to Marquita’s house. Pulling into the driveway around ten o’clock he was met with a few surprises. First, the sprinklers were running. Then he noticed that the lawn had been mowed. Curiosity drove him to open the mailbox. It was empty. Even greater curiosity spurred Hannibal to the door. Five seconds after he pushed the doorbell, Sarge pulled the door open.

  “Hey, Hannibal. Good to see you man. The doc’s already here, doing an exam on her.”

  Hannibal followed Sarge into a house that was transformed. The carpet had been vacuumed, maybe shampooed. The mail was stacked neatly on an end table. Swiping a black-gloved finger across the entertainment center proved it had been dusted.

  “So I guess you kept busy through the night,” Hannibal said.

  “Well, they taught me in the Marines to keep my quarters ship shape,” Sarge said. “The galley gave me the most trouble. I don’t know how the woman could stand to get food in that place. Anyway, I figured she’d find it easier to get back to normal if she wasn’t living in a crap hole.”

  Hannibal lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, almost afraid to ruin the house’s showroom appearance. “You did quite a job. Did you get any sleep at all?”

  “I caught a few winks off and on up in the bedroom.”

  Hannibal cocked an eyebrow. “Her bedroom?”

  Sarge shook his head with a grin. “It ain’t what you’re thinking. Markie woke up screaming in the night. The night terrors, you know, like I’ve seen alcoholics get.”

  “Markie?”

  “That’s what her friends call her,” Sarge said, dropping into the recliner. As he spoke, his fingertips slowly rubbed his left palm. “We got to talking a bit. She was too scared to stay in there by herself so I sat with her a while. She dozed off and on, and so did I. You were right, buddy. She sure as hell didn’t need to be out here by herself last night.”

  Hannibal nodded. “And she dug her nails pretty deeply into your hand, I see. You’re a good man, Sarge.”

  “She’s a good woman,” Sarge said. “Hannibal, how could a man break a woman down like that?”

  Before Hannibal could answer he heard his named called from upstairs. He and Sarge stood immediately and jogged up the stairs to Marquita’s bedroom. The door was ajar, but Hannibal pushed slowly on his way in. Marquita was under the comforter, just as he had left her, but nothing else was the same. Both the disorder and the smell he had faced the first time he entered the room were gone. Roberts perched on the edge of the bed, speaking to her in hushed tones. Marquita had regained a little color and Hannibal could see a hint of African heritage, although her background was overwhelmingly French, judging by her features. She looked more centered than she had the night before, but her knit brow told Hannibal that it was still hard for her to focus.

  “Now, will you be all right in here alone, while I go outside to talk to Mr. Jones?” Roberts asked. “He’s a friend.”

  “I know,” Marquita said, smiling for a second in Hannibal’s direction. “He’s the man who was here when I collapsed. He was very sweet to me when he could have taken advantage.”

  “Yes, but we need to speak out in the hall for a moment.”

  “I’ll be fine, doctor, if Archibald can sit with me for a little while.”

  Hannibal’s face jerked toward Sarge. “Archibald?”

  Sarge raised a finger in front of Hannibal’s face, his course voice bristling. “You don’t never need to call me that, hear?”

  “Hey,” Hannibal raised his palms toward Sarge. “I’m the last guy who’d make fun of anybody’s name, man.”

  Still, he was chuckling as he backed out of the room. Roberts followed him into the next room and pushed the door closed behind himself. Hannibal waved Roberts into the vanity chair while he stood rather than sitting on the bed.

  “So how’s she doing, Doc? Is she checking herself into a nice rest home?”

  Oh, I don’t think so,” Roberts said. “She’s still in rather bad shape, but she’s pretty resilient, and if she keeps drinking lots of water to flush the alcohol out of her system I think she’ll be okay.” He looked up at Hannibal, the weight of his knowledge dragging his face down. “Someone used this girl badly, in ways I don’t see too often. Too many men, too many ways, and there are signs that when the men couldn’t do it to her themselves they used other things. And there are strap marks. She was really lucky.”

  Hannibal shook his head. “Doesn’t sound too lucky to me.”

  “I mean lucky you came along when you did,” Roberts said. “She’s hideously undernourished and dehydrated. If she had stayed in this house one more day, not eating and self-medicating with alcohol to dull her pain, who knows what would have happened to her. It was a fortunate turn of fate that brought you to her door before she was too weak or too drunk to answer the bell.”

  “Yeah, timing is everything,” Hannibal said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. His hand hit a small bottle there. He pulled it out and, on an impulse, handed it to Roberts.

  “Say, Doc, I found these in Marquita’s medicine cabinet. Something dangerous? If she was trying to commit suicide, maybe she should be under observation.”

  Roberts shook a couple of the round pills into his hand and flipped one over to see the markings. His bushy white eyebrows rose.

  “No, people don’t try to hurt themselves with flunitazepam. They leave it to someone else”

  “Fluni-what?”

  Roberts looked up and Hannibal with new weariness on his face. “Do you know the more common name Rohypnol?”

  “Is that the same as roofies?” Hannibal asked. “The so-called date rape drug?”

  “That’s it,” Roberts said, dropping the pills back into their bottle. “It does have sedative or hypnotic effects. Rohypnol really can incapacitate a girl; prevent her from resisting sexual assault, for instance. One of these is as powerful as ten Valium and can keep a person compliant for eight hours or more. I have to believe someone was using these to keep Ms. LaPage in a compliant frame of mind.”

  “That’s sick,” Hannibal said. “To sneak drugs into a girl’s food or drink to take advantage of her?” He paced from one corner of the room to another. The sun coming in the window was annoying him.

  “You found these in her medicine cabinet?” Roberts asked. Hannibal nodded. “Well then, I hardly think they were sneaking them into her.”

  Hannibal stopped, mid-pace, and turned to stare at Roberts. “You mean you think she knew? Yeah, of course, she must have. Well, it makes sense I guess, if you want to be controlled. But that’s crazy. Why would anyone accept being drugged like that?”

  “Ah, Hannibal,” Roberts said. “This sort of naiveté ill becomes you. People will allow you to do anything once you’ve gained their trust. Whoever was here, whoever did these things to Ms. LaPage, He would appear to be a master at gaining women’s trust.”

  Trust, Hannibal thought. Blair called it the number one business asset of our ag
e. And maybe it was the number one asset of the sexual predator as well.

  “What do we do now, Doc?”

  “Well, she’ll need some looking after,” Roberts said, standing, “but I don’t think there’s a medical solution for her problems. When she’s regained her strength I would recommend psychiatric counseling. If she’s interested, I’d be happy to have her as a patient.”

  * * * * *

  The bedroom door was open just an inch or two, and Hannibal stood in front of it for a moment before pushing it wider. Sarge sat on the far side of the bed beside Marquita who was propped up on a collection of pillows and wrapped in a soft yellow silk robe. A shaft of light from the window cast a warm glow around her. Despite obvious exhaustion, she seemed animated as she chatted in low tones with Sarge. Color was already returning to her face. Her hair was shiny and now that it was brushed out it turned out to be longer than Hannibal had realized. It was hard to believe she looked this good, considering what Dr. Roberts had said about her health. Could one night’s sleep make that big a difference?

  As he pushed the door open, Sarge and Marquita turned toward him. She presented the smile of a practiced southern hostess but her hand clutched Sarge’s a little tighter.

  “It is good to see you again, Mr. Jones. Is the doctor gone?”

  “Yes ma’am. He says you’re doing much better. I have to say you sure look a lot better than you did just last night. Do you think you’re up to talking to me for a while?”

  “She’s pretty worn out, Hannibal,” Sarge said. “What do you need with her, anyway?”

  Had Sarge been a canine, that question would have been a low warning growl. Hannibal hadn’t expected this protective stance, but it was clear from Sarge’s body language that he was standing guard over the girl. Hannibal smiled and pulled the chair from the vanity to sit close to the bed. “I have a client who had dealings with the man who hurt Marquita. I’ve been hired to find him, and she might be able to help me do that.”