“Oh Jesus,” Hannibal said, sucking in a sharp breath. “It’s Langford Kitteridge.”
33
When Hannibal turned to rush out of the room he stepped into a cloud of blue uniforms. The police had finally arrived and their first act was to relieve Ray of the pistol he was holding. The incoming wave of police momentarily pressed Hannibal back into the room, until he spotted a familiar face at the back of the crowd.
“Thompson,” Hannibal called. “Let me out of here. I need to talk to you now, to prevent another killing.”
Stan Thompson waved and the uniformed officers parted to let Hannibal through. In the hall he looked into Thompson’s impassive face and realized he had way too much to say and not nearly enough time to say it.
“Look, I’m glad you’re here,” Hannibal said. “I know what happened now, and I know why. You can get almost the whole story out of the older man in there, Gil Donner. His wife was our killer’s first victim, even before Grant Edwards. But right now, he’s on his way to scratch vic number four. I need a police escort to get to the scene with lights and sirens or else we’ll be too late.”
Thompson maintained his bored expression. “You’ll have to give me a hell of a lot more than that before I send a car off with you to parts unknown, Jones.”
“You don’t understand,” Hannibal said. “There’s no time. We may already be too late. And I can’t stand here and debate it with you. You don’t want to send a car, fine. Then tell them to watch out for the Volvo doing a hundred miles an hour toward Falls Church.”
Behind him, Hannibal heard Thompson shout “Halt!” but the sound faded quickly as he dived into the stairwell. Seconds later he burst into the lobby at a dead run. Sprinting across the floor he almost crashed into Kate Andrews at the door. Instead he grabbed her arm and continued out. Despite the surprise on her face, Kate ran with him as best she could.
“Get in my car if you want the whole story,” Hannibal told her, panting as he ran. “The police might be after us, but if they don’t stop us, you’ll get the full story you started on with Dean Edwards at the end of this ride, one way or the other.”
Hannibal rammed the White Tornado into gear and pulled away from the curb before Kate quite had her seat belt on. He drove south on Route One as fast as the traffic would allow. He knew Mark Norton’s place was not far away, but this could well be the longest five miles of his life. Hannibal’s senses were turned up to maximum sensitivity and his passenger had the good sense to sit quietly and grit her teeth. He swung right onto Glebe road dodging from one lane to another to gain every possible second’s advantage. He raced through one red light a second after it turned, before cross traffic could fill the intersection. Finally he roared with squealing tires up the ramp onto I-395 where he could really open up his engine.
“Are we rushing to capture the murderer?” Kate asked.
“That and prevent another killing,” Hannibal said. “What were you doing at the Courtyard, anyway?”
“When I heard on the scanner that you called the police I figured it might have to do with my story.”
“If we’re in time, this will be the end of it,” Hannibal said, swerving to pass a slow moving SUV on the right. “Oscar Peters was this murderer’s third victim, and all of the killings revolve around Joan Kitteridge. She’ll be there when we get there I think.”
“Well then, let me call a camera crew,” Kate said, pulling out her cell phone. “Maybe we can get some arrest footage.”
Hannibal left the highway for King Street, amazed that no police car had spotted him. A handful of seconds later, he slowed to well below the speed limit and pulled to the right hand lane.
“What happened to our hurry?” Kate asked. “Don’t we need to head off the murderer?”
“Actually, we almost overtook him,” Hannibal said. “Three cars up.” He pointed ahead at the low slung midnight blue Lexus they had almost passed. Its license plate read KITYCAR1.
Hannibal hung back as the Lexus turned into the parking lot. He parked on the opposite side of the lot, four cars away from the little red Corvette with the KITTYCAR license plates. He slouched low as the driver of the Lexus got out of his car and headed for the building.
“This is the killer?” Kate asked, skepticism dripping from her voice. Hannibal understood her disbelief. Despite the energy in his step, the gray headed man in Dockers and a corduroy blazer still had to be in his sixties. As he entered the door, Hannibal slid out of his driver’s seat.
“We follow at a discreet distance,” Hannibal said. “Meanwhile, call the police and tell them you’ve witnessed an assault at this address in number 604.”
In the elevator, Kate asked, “Isn’t this dangerous? What if he kills his victim before we get there?”
“Not much chance of that,” Hannibal said. “Not with her standing there. In fact, I think he’ll be stuck for just what to do.”
Standing outside Mark Norton’s door, Hannibal felt no such hesitation or confusion. He had determined that enough people had been hurt in the last fifteen years and that it would stop here. Driven more by his own desire for closure than a need for justice, he tried the door. The knob turned in his hand and he stepped inside.
The tableau that greeted him was not quite what he expected. Mark Norton sat on the sofa, beside two suitcases. Langford Kitteridge sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Joan Kitteridge stood in front of the glass doors leading to the balcony. Her eyes widened as Hannibal walked in, her jaw dropped open and she even stuttered out her first few words.
“Mr. Jones, what are you doing here?”
“Surprised to see me alive, Joan?” Hannibal asked, waving Kate to the couch. She sat and pulled a reporter’s notebook out of her bag.
“You’re becoming a nuisance,” Langford said over his shoulder. “I think you should go.”
Hannibal closed the door and stood between it and the rest of the room’s occupants. “I don’t think so. Not until I’m sure Mark here knows what he’s getting into being involved with Joan. After that he can make a bad choice with his eyes open if he likes.”
Mark’s face took on an arrogant smirk. “We’ve just told Mr. Kitteridge about our marriage, Jones, and she’s explained about her earlier matrimonial mistake. Now what do you think you can tell me about her I don’t know?”
Hannibal looked not at Mark but rather into Langford’s deeply cleft face when he answered. “Well I wonder if she told you she was an eyewitness to the first murder Langford here committed. And I don’t think she told you that he came over today intending to kill you. He would have too, if Joan hadn’t gotten here first. Guess you two were packing to escape, eh Joan?”
In all that, Mark had only captured one word. “Murder?” he repeated.
“Yep. He’d do anything to keep Joan for himself.”
“Wait a minute,” Kate said, scribbling like a madwoman. “Isn’t this her uncle?”
“God, I hope not,” Hannibal said. “Because they’ve been sleeping together since before Joan was of legal age. And when she did reach legal age, they were married. Mark, meet Joan’s first husband. You aren’t blood relatives, are you?” This last question Hannibal addressed to Langford.
“You’re treading on dangerous territory,” Langford said, slipping to his feet. “We’re not blood and, even if we maintained our privacy, there was nothing illegal or even illicit about our marriage.”
“Well, you’ve always seen the morality thing in shades of gray, haven’t you, Langford?” Hannibal asked. “Before you met Joan, you were sleeping with the wife of your good friend Gil Donner.”
Langford reddened. “I never sneaked behind his back. Gil and Carla had an open relationship.”
“That appears to be true,” Hannibal said. “They even had a little love nest apartment where they met their outside interests. Funny, you’d have expected Carla to be a better sport. About sharing, I mean.”