“That’s the way they taught me to take out a sentry in the corps,” Sarge said, relaxing and releasing his friend.
Hannibal rolled his shoulders forward. “Sure. Should have been obvious to everyone. Not just a man, but a man who’s had military training. He stepped in silently after the argument, but before Francis came in. One quick strike and out. Maybe Dean wasn’t so far off after all.”
“I’m not sure what all that means,” Sarge said, “except I’m pretty sure it means a busy day for you.”
“You got that right,” Hannibal said, sliding the police photos back into their envelope. “I need to see the man who might be able to tell me where Joan Kitteridge ran off to. I have to return an item to the most recent murder victim’s mother. And I guess I need to know a lot more about Joan’s ex-husband. I can think of two people who might be able to tell me about him. I’ll question one, and I think I can get Cindy to talk to the other.”
Each time Hannibal pulled into the Kitteridge driveway, his tension level was a little bit higher. This time he arrived intending to be downright confrontational, and that did not feel good to him. Langford Kitteridge was certainly spry and energetic, but he was still a lonely old man, whose only family was missing and presumed in hiding.
Again Hannibal rang the doorbell in his working suit and tie, glasses and gloves. This time when the door to the big colonial swung open, Langford looked at Hannibal with both familiarity and hopefulness. His face seemed even more deeply lined than before, worry pulling the skin of his face downward.
“Mr. Jones! Please come in. Do you have word of my niece?”
Hannibal stepped inside, but stopped in the cavernous living room in front of the long black leather sofa. “No sir, I haven’t been able to turn up anything. I was hoping you could give me some more information that might help.”
“Yes, yes. Anything.” Langford waved Hannibal down into the couch and lowered himself into the one opposite. They faced each other over the top of a wide glass-topped coffee table. Track lighting softened the older man’s face, but not enough to make Hannibal’s job any easier.
“Sir, I don’t know if Joan is in trouble or not. But if you haven’t heard from her in all this time she might be. And if she is, I think it could be some trouble returning from her past. Specifically, trouble being caused by her ex-husband.” Not a lie exactly, Hannibal thought. In fact, it could well turn out to be one interpretation of the truth. He watched Langford’s face, following his white bushy eyebrows as they rose and lowered.
“I told you, Mr. Jones, Joanie has never been married.”
Hannibal sighed. “Yes sir, you did tell me that. But now I know that was a lie. And I was hoping, with her safety in question, you might be willing to now tell me the truth. I think it must have been when she was very young, and I think he must have been a military man.”
It happened almost too quickly to follow. The color drained out of Langford’s face, then rushed back up into it. He turned away, and his eyes focused on some imaginary spot in the distance. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere in the house, and Hannibal imagined the sound was connected to Langford’s mind grinding away. Hannibal reminded himself that Joan Kitteridge had probably learned her calculating ways at this old man’s knee. But when Langford turned back to Hannibal, his face was clear and relaxed again. His eyes were hooded, but Hannibal knew that shame could cause that in men old enough to still occasionally feel it.
“She was barely eighteen,” Langford said softly. “Had no interest in listening to the old man. Just took off to be with this fellow. I still don’t know what the attraction was. For her, anyway. Anybody could see the attraction for him, eh? But it didn’t last long. He treated her poorly and she soon understood her mistake.”
Hannibal tried to buoy the mood with a small smile. “Young people make mistakes. But sometimes the mistakes don’t go away as quickly or as permanently as we think. What can you tell me about the boy?”
“Nothing really,” Langford said. “I never cared to know anything about him. Except as you say, he was a soldier.”
“All right,” Hannibal said. “I guess that’s no surprise. How about a description? Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“Back then?” Langford’s eyes turned up as he called his memory into play. “Well, let’s see. I seem to recall a handsome man, a tall man, on the slim side but well muscled, as a soldier would be. Dark brown hair and eyes. High cheekbones. Not a dark complexion but well tanned I’d say.”
“You’ve a good memory, Mr. Kitteridge,” Hannibal said. “It almost sounds like someone I know.”
The address was neither hard to find nor a surprise.
Standing on the roof of Mark Norton’s condominium complex Hannibal could have thrown a football with a reasonable expectation of hitting the building Mark worked in before the ball hit the ground. He parked his Volvo in the only unmarked space he could find. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed Oscar’s yearbook, thinking it might make a useful prop when questioning Mark. Once inside, Hannibal called for an elevator. Mark lived on the 11th floor and just as Hannibal touched that button in the elevator his telephone hummed at him.
“Hannibal? It’s Cindy.”
Even on the worst of days, it brightened his heart to hear her voice. “I know who it is sweetheart. Have you talked to Francis? What did she think of Dean’s theory?”
“Well she was sure glad to know her son doesn’t think she’s a murderer,” Cindy said. “But his basic idea is all wrong. She says she didn’t know that Joan was married and never met or talked to her husband. She couldn’t have told him about her husband’s affair with his wife, and she says she wouldn’t have told him anyway.”
“So Dean’s out of the guilt trip area,” Hannibal said as the elevator smoothly raised him into vertical space. “No way he can be responsible for either of the killings, even by proxy.”
“Yes, but where does that leave you for a suspect?”
“I still like the ex-husband,” Hannibal said in front of Mark’s door. “And I have to say Joan’s tastes seem to be consistent. The description of her husband sounds an awful lot like the guy behind this door I’m knocking on right now. Better talk to you later, babe.”
Mark Norton answered the door in jeans, tee shirt and white socks. One small lick of his hair stuck up in defiance from the back and he hadn’t shaved. He clearly was not on his way anywhere that day. Hannibal smiled his small menacing smile and stepped past him into the great room, which reminded Hannibal of Walt Young’s place.
“Okay Mark, let’s not dance around. Where’s Joan?”
Mark didn’t bother with bravado. He closed the door and headed for the kitchen area as if Hannibal was an invited guest. “She’s not here. Look around if you like. Drink?”
“No thanks,” Hannibal said, “but you go ahead.” He waited for Mark to gulp down half a bloody mary so that he could have his attention again. “She seems to take off quite a bit, unannounced. You should keep better tabs on your wife.”
Mark’s answer was a slight surprise. “Joan isn’t the type of cat you put a bell on, Mr. Jones.”
“So I’ve learned,” Hannibal said. “She’s been really hard for her uncle to keep track of. He hasn’t seen her in days. And he has no idea she’s married you know. How’d you manage to keep such a secret over so many months? And why?”
“So many what? Boy are you confused. We’ve only been married for two weeks. How about some fruit juice?”
This time Hannibal nodded and moved over to take a seat on one of the stools in front of the counter, keenly aware that his position was now the reverse of what it was when he chatted with Francis Edwards in Walt Young’s condo. He decided that he didn’t need to play hardball to get answers here. It was obvious that Mark wanted to keep this friendly, and that was fine with Hannibal.
“So, you weren’t married when you spent the summer together in Vegas?”