Hannibal went to the coffee pot on the small table beside his desk and poured the water into the reservoir.
“I think that was a good idea. I was going to call you, but since you’re here I can update you in person.”
“Did you find out something from Anita?” Sarge asked. Hannibal poured Hawaiian Kona beans into the other side of the coffee maker, hit a button, and spoke over the whirring sound of the beans being ground.
“My client, Anita Cooper, was beaten pretty badly Saturday night.”
After a brief pause to inhale the aroma of fresh-ground beans, he sat behind his desk and continued.
“This morning she admitted to me that Mantooth did it.” Marquita sucked in a breath and her fawn colored eyes stretched wide open. “Yes,” Hannibal continued, “He’s back in the area.”
Marquita’s shock and fear pushed her into a different world from Sarge’s immediate rage.
“We gotta find this son of a bitch.”
“No,” Hannibal said, keeping his voice calm. “I gotta find him. You need to stay on your assignment. Keep Marquita safe until this is over.”
Marquita clung to Sarge, placing a hand on his chest as if wanting to literally cling to his heart. Mantooth had a lot to pay for, but bringing these two together could turn out to be an unintended consequence of his evil. Good could come of it, but they needed time. Hannibal pulled a credit card out of his wallet.
“I want you to take Marquita out of town. Someplace with lots of people, but peaceful. An amusement park, or the beach or somewhere. Here, it’s a legitimate expense for the case. Get her to someplace nice while I’m on the hunt.”
Once Sarge was packed and on the road, Hannibal filled a mug with coffee and sipped on his feet. He found himself pacing his office with no leads, no clues and no next step. He had done some skip tracing work before, but Mantooth was being more elusive than anyone Hannibal had pursued before. He seemed to live on cash alone, no credit card or checks. He used an alias for hotels and, it appeared, any other services he used. Still, people have pasts and people make mistakes. With no better course available, Hannibal hopped back into the White Tornado and headed for the courthouse to check for public records. Again, the midday traffic on I-295 was onerous. He could always amuse himself for a few minutes reading the license plates around him. He was certain that the Washington area had the highest per capita rate of vanity plates in the country. Decoding them was always amusing, at least for a while. When that grew boring he decided to have a consultation with a doctor.
“You must have me on speed dial,” Quincy Roberts said after a secretary passed Hannibal’s call to him. “What kind of trouble are you bringing me now?”
“Not trouble, Doc, just a couple of questions,” Hannibal said as 2COOL 4U slid past him on his right. He looked at the driver. She wasn’t.
“I’m free for about fifteen minutes,” Roberts said. “But I’ll bill you anyway. What can I do for you?”
“First, tell me why a guy would steal the formula for a new painkiller. What with aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, codeine and a dozen others already there, what’s the big deal?” Now a guy in a suit was rolling past in H8 2 W8. Why was the right lane moving so much more quickly?
“You could just as easily have asked, why was ibuprofen of any value after acetaminophen was found,” Roberts said. “To oversimplify, every one of the drugs you named works differently. If a new one came along that lasted longer, or worked better for arthritis pain or migraine headaches, it could be worth a fortune. And since development cost is so great, stealing the formula saves a company a great deal. But these pharmaceutical companies have very good security.”
“Yeah,” Hannibal said, “but you can’t really defend against a guy working on an undocumented project, right?” At least this much of Hathaway’s story held up. It wouldn’t be hard to fake notes, show failure when there was success, or simply work on one thing while appearing to work on another, especially if you had a coworker covering for you.
“Okay, now a more theoretical question. What would you say if someone told you they had developed a cure for drug addiction?”
“I would say that they are either lying or several years ahead of medical science,” Roberts said. “It’s theoretically possible, at least for the chemical dependency, not the psychological slice.”
“So it could be done? And it would have commercial value?”
“Its value today could hardly be measured,” Roberts said. “To free people of drug addiction with a simple pill or shot instead of years of therapy? It’s like a pharmaceutical holy grail. And yes, it’s possible in theory. One could develop a vaccine I suppose, that would create antibodies that could destroy the drug before it could affect you. Or it might just prevent the drug from passing through the blood-brain barrier. You’d be full of the addictive material, but you wouldn’t get the high, and that would make breaking the addiction cycle much easier. Squashing the brain’s addiction response would be much harder, but still possible I guess. Hannibal, should I take it that this is more than a theoretical conversation? What you’re talking about could be the pivotal pharmaceutical advance of our age.”
Hannibal was listening, but also watching for his exit. As it came near he signaled right, which prompted the driver beside him to speed up to fill the gap Hannibal was about to drive into.
“You dick!”
“I beg your pardon?” Roberts said.
“Sorry, Doc. Thanks a lot for the background info. I think what you’re talking about is what someone stole from one of my clients, and now I have some ideas about how the thief might want to sell the formula. Hey, I need to focus on driving right now.”
“Keep me posted on this new theoretical discovery,” Robert said. “I have some patients who could be saved by just such a miracle drug.”
The balance of the day consisted of the kind of grunt work most private detectives pay their bills with. Hannibal searched court files, property records and motor vehicle records for any sign of a recent address for Rod, Roderick or Roger Mantooth. He accessed Mantooth’s prison records for past addresses, and ran each one down to its predictable dead end. Mantooth had listed no next of kin or emergency contact numbers. Credit bureau records proved equally useless. Military records appeared nonexistent. The few numbers that matched his name in national telephone directories proved to belong to solid citizens who could not be the man Hannibal sought.
When he finally returned home Hannibal’s frustration burned in his stomach like bad Mexican food. This time, as he entered his building he looked to the left, toward his own apartment. But, feeling that his work day shouldn’t be over, he turned right and went to his office. He had just turned the doorknob when Ray entered the building behind him.
“Hey, how’s it hanging Paco?” Ray called. “You found the bad guy yet?”
Hannibal shook his head as he flung the door open. “This one’s being a bitch, and I’m afraid I’m running out of time. Any sign of the Corvorado?”
“Oh, that half Cadillac thing? Nada. None of the driver’s has spotted it. And from your description, it would be pretty hard to miss.”
Hannibal nodded, but said nothing more as Ray climbed the stairs to his own apartment. There was plenty for them to talk about, but Ray looked tired at the end of a long workday, and Hannibal had to admit he was focused on Mantooth, an abusive thief who had gone to ground very effectively.
Inside, Hannibal poured the remains of the morning’s pot down the sink and pulled out a French press to brew one more perfect cup. Ray had a point. That car would be almost impossible to miss if it was on the streets anywhere in the area. That raised an ugly thought. Had Mantooth moved on? Despite his apparent arrogance he may have realized that beating Anita would raise his profile enough to catch someone’s attention.