“Bea Collins cares about you. She doesn’t know why you walked out of her life without warning. Bea is a good woman and, in my estimation, deserves better. Now, I don’t have any evidence of you having committed any crimes at this time…”
“Crimes?”
Hannibal rounded the table and zoomed in on Dean like a telescopic rifle site. “I stopped digging but I can pick that shovel back up again. Right now, that’s not my job. So here are your choices. You can disappear again, abandon your lucrative job and the life you’ve got started here and start over someplace else. Or, you can do the right thing.”
Dean had trouble keeping his eyes on Hannibal’s through the sunglasses. In fact, he glanced around nervously, looking at everything but Hannibal. “The right thing. And you think you know what the right thing is, is that it? I won’t go back to her Mister Jones.”
“Lucky for her,” Hannibal said, standing over Dean as if the boy were on the witness stand in a courtroom drama. “But you need to meet with Bea and give her some sort of explanation for disappearing. You might even consider the truth.”
Hannibal pressed ahead, even as all his instincts were shouting this was wrong. Dean Edwards was soft in the middle, no hidden core. This man didn’t have what it took to run a confidence game. He barely had the confidence to run his own life. His hands were locked together, his thumbs rubbing each other. Despite his nervousness he had the strength to stick to his intentions this time.
“You don’t understand. I care about Bea. Very much. But I had to go. I won’t get her involved in…in my life.” Then Dean stared at the platter sized triangular device at the center of the table. Hannibal glanced at it as well, realizing too late that it was a microphone of some type, designed to pick up comments from around the room. Good for meetings, but bad for confidentiality. And it occurred to Hannibal that whatever Dean’s problem was, it could have something to do with his work. And it could catch up to Bea whether he wanted it to or not. He nodded his understanding to Dean, slipped him one of his cards, and backed off a bit.
“Why don’t I pick you up from work tonight and we can work out the details. Five o’clock okay?”
Dean nodded and Hannibal turned to leave. He figured he could open Dean up more later, maybe in Bea’s presence. He planned to take as much time as needed to explain what he learned earlier that day and all it might imply. But as he stepped out of the room Oscar took his arm.
“Ms. Kitteridge would like a word with you,” Oscar said, steering Hannibal toward the corner office. “She says it’s pretty important.”
Joan Kitteridge’s three-sided desk was a cockpit pinning her against the wall. Between her computer keyboard and monitor, her intercom, television remote control, her mouse, her joystick, her surge protector lined with lighted switches and a control panel for her peripherals, it looked as if she could control the planet from her seat.
Oscar had stopped at the door. Mark Norton waved Hannibal in and toward the leather sofa along the far wall, below the windows. Hannibal lowered himself onto it. Mark stood at the door, not as relaxed as he was trying to appear. Joan leaned forward, hooking titian locks out of her eye with a thumb as she spoke.
“Mister Jones, I’ll come to the point. Dean Edwards is a valued employee here. Talented and hard working. It appears he’s in some sort of trouble, and I want to know if you’re part of it. If you represent a problem that can be solved with money, we may be able to help make it go away.”
Hannibal looked hard at the Chief Executive Officer of Kitteridge Computer Systems. Behind her husky voice, this woman was a world away from Dean Edwards. He sensed layer behind layer, like a steel-skinned onion. The kind of woman who could run a multimillion-dollar company.
“Let me make a few things clear,” Hannibal said. “First, I’m not here to cause trouble. I was asked to find Mister Edwards and I have. And I have no intention of trying to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. But I think he may have made a bad mistake and I could help him correct it. Now, what makes you think he’s in trouble?”
While Hannibal spoke, Joan sat still as a wax figure, absorbing his words. Mark didn’t watch Hannibal. His eyes were drawn to his boss’ magnetism. He fidgeted a bit.
When Hannibal finished, Joan sat for another ten seconds, then said, “I see.” She stood to lean toward him, unwilling to leave the enclosure of her control center. “I think it was pretty obvious to all of us who know him that Dean was scared when he came in to work this morning. Scared of something. From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t seem to be you. But when I questioned him, he wouldn’t tell me anything. I worry about my people, Mister Jones.”
“Isn’t that a little maternal?”
“Some of these people need a little looking after,” she answered, not smiling at all. “They don’t live much in this world where you and I function, Mister Jones. That’s why they’re so good at dealing with the imaginary universe they’re in.”
7
Hannibal was contemplating these people who needed Joan Kitteridge’s looking after on his way out. One of them intercepted Hannibal in the reception area and followed him out to the elevators. It was Oscar Peters, who trailed behind Hannibal like a frightened puppy, afraid to get too close for fear that Hannibal might decide to kick him.
“I’m just heading for lunch,” Oscar said, stepping into the elevator car with Hannibal and moving to the farthest corner. “I live right by here and just usually go home to eat. Why don’t you join me? I think we should talk.”
“What about?”
“Well, Dean and I have become pretty good friends,” Oscar said, pushing his glasses up. “I might be able to help you help him.”
“I imagine I’ll find out all I need to know when I pick him up after work tonight,” Hannibal said.
The doors slid back and the two men stepped out into the building’s marble lobby. “Tonight?” Oscar asked. “I don’t think so, pizo. Dean left work for the day right after that meeting with you.”
Oscar Peters lived in an antique house a couple of blocks off Route 7 back toward Alexandria. Its entrance was defended by a stone porch, but to stand on it one had to climb a set of rotting wooden steps. The house’s small wallpapered living room retained its original hardwood floors, left over from a time when someone boasted about owning the place. An archway led to a formal dining room where Hannibal sat while Oscar heated clam chowder and fried grilled cheese sandwiches on the gas stove. The cooking aromas couldn’t quite overpower the lilac air freshener. Oscar delivered the food to the table without a touch of embarrassment. Hannibal pulled off his gloves to eat, but chose to leave his sunglasses on, even in the dim house.
“I used to date Joan Kitteridge you know,” Oscar said, biting into his sandwich. Hannibal wondered if it was true. The loneliness of this man’s life was obvious, and lonely people would often say whatever they thought would hold another person’s attention.
“So how did you and Dean become friends? He been here long?”
Oscar nodded, accepting Hannibal’s question as the price of keeping him interested. “Dean turned up about six months ago I guess. Not long after I joined the company. He crashed here a couple of times in those days. He and I became, well, close.”
“Really?” Hannibal said, wiping his hands on the napkin Oscar offered. “And when he stopped crashing here? Did he start crashing at Kitteridge’s right after that?”
Oscar looked surprised to find anyone knew that. “Um, yeah I guess so. She kind of took a liking to him.”
Hannibal considered what Joan had told him. “Oscar, what is Dean so afraid of?”
Oscar’s eyes flashed up at Hannibal, his smile twitching. “Dean? Don’t know what he might be scared of. Never know what’s going on with that guy.”