Russian Roulette hj-5 Read online

  “Nope. Same mark,” Hannibal said. “I was kind of hoping to put our heads together on this. You know, team up.”

  “Well as you can see, Benny ain’t here.” Queenie never looked toward Hannibal for a light, just pulled out a pack of matches and lit her own cigarette.

  “Maybe you can help. I just want to know why he’d want pictures of the man.”

  “He’s just got this crazy idea he can blackmail Gana with some pictures,” she said, putting one red high heel up on the chair she was standing beside. “Like, do what I say or I’ll let the whole gang know where you are.”

  “So he is on the run.”

  “Better believe it,” Queenie said, shooting a narrow stream of smoke his way. “That’s what happens when you steal from your betters. The boss is pretty pissed.”

  “Your boss?” Hannibal asked. He regretted the question as soon as he voiced it. Asking too many can make some people suspicious.

  “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Hannibal Jones.” He gave her a card as a sign of his legitimacy. “I’m a local private investigator. I don’t want to mess up Ben’s action, but it’s hard when I don’t know what the action is.”

  “Ben didn’t tell you why he was there?”

  “We didn’t have much of a chance to talk before Gana came out of the house after us,” Hannibal said.

  “You kidding?” Queenie said, flicking her cigarette’s ash into a tray. “What did he do?”

  “I took off before Gana caught up to Ben. I think he broke the camera though.”

  “Damn,” she said, breathing smoke as she spoke. “That thing was expensive.”

  “How does he know Gana anyway?”

  “He don’t know him. I do.” Queenie took a long drag on her cigarette and started marching her spiked heels around the room. “This Dani Gana character and I worked together once. He had a sweet deal. Then one day he disappeared with some of the boss’ money. Very uncool. The boss wanted us to hunt him down but I figure there’s no percentage in turning him over to the boss. My thinking is he’ll be willing to trade the money for his freedom.”

  “Ben didn’t seem to me the kind of guy who’d be up to blackmailing somebody like that,” Hannibal said, leaning on the back of the chair that still held the imprint of Queenie’s heel.

  Queenie stopped pacing and looked at Hannibal over her shoulder. “You look like you’re up the challenge,” she said in a way that made Hannibal doubt she was talking about blackmail. “Maybe you could help us out.”

  “Help you out how?”

  “You’re a detective,” she said, as if that made everything obvious. “You just help us find the money and get it back, and we’ll give you a nice cut.”

  Hannibal eased down onto the chair. “You’re all about the money, ain’t you? If I was you, I’d be more worried about Ben.”

  “Why? What’s he done now?”

  “I don’t really know,” Hannibal said. “But I do know his car is abandoned on a little side street. It’s been sitting there for two days.”

  “Abandoned?” Queenie stared into Hannibal’s dark lenses and for the first time he thought he saw genuine concern in her eyes. “Where is it?”

  “A few blocks from Gana’s place.”

  “Jesus. I hope nothing’s happened to the big lug.”

  “Well, when you go chasing after thieves…” Big lug? Hannibal hadn’t heard that phrase since he was watching old movies with his mother back in Germany.

  “If it’s by Gana’s, then it can’t be too far from here,” she said, pulling a white satin windbreaker out of the closet. “Take me to the car.” When Hannibal didn’t move, she clamped her eyes shut and added, “Please?”

  Hannibal led her out to his Volvo, telling himself that there might be some useful information inside the vehicle. Maybe Ben took notes during his surveillance of Gana, or maybe he had a lead on the money. If Gana’s fortune was indeed stolen, he needed to know the source to finish his assignment. Queenie was playing things close, but if he did her a favor or two, got on her side, she might tell Hannibal who she worked for and how much Gana stole.

  While he drove, Queenie stared out the window, examining every face that passed as if it might be her husband. She may have been both the brains and the guts of this team, but it appeared that Ben was the heart. She seemed lost without him.

  She was getting antsy when they pulled into the block where Hannibal had twice passed the Saturn. Traffic was lighter in midafternoon and he rolled very slowly down the street, looking for the fire hydrant that was his landmark.

  “Come on,” Queenie said when they were a little more than half way down the block. “Where is it?”

  Hannibal couldn’t answer. The little brown Saturn was gone.

  14

  “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 pro
mise 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.