The mystery girl lived in a second floor flat she apparently rented from the building’s owners. She had a separate entrance at the top of a long flight of white wooden stairs. Hannibal wanted to meet the woman face-to-face. He was building a cover story concerning confusing her address with someone else’s on his way up the stairs. It wasn’t necessary. His knock drew no response.
The view between the curtains on the inside of the door offered little. A white gas stove, Formica kitchen table and metal tube chairs implied a place that hadn’t changed much in decades. Drab wallpaper and chipped linoleum might mean a place that the model-shaped occupant didn’t spend much time in, but the dog’s water bowl meant regular return visits home.
From the landing he had a good view of what appeared to be a typical, middle class neighborhood, leaning toward the low end. He saw bicycles in driveways, chain link fences were more popular than the white picket variety, and a woman in shorts and a tank top sat in front of the neighborhood grocery store on the other side of the street. Ah, the all-knowing, all seeing neighborhood observer, Hannibal thought. Where would private detectives be without them?
Hannibal smiled his way over to the stringy-haired blonde whose freckled skin had seen too much sun and not enough sunscreen. She raised expectant eyes toward him but offered no greeting.
“Well, hi,” Hannibal said. “You look like maybe you can help me.”
“Yeah, but why would I want to?” she replied.
“Because you’re a nice person,” Hannibal said, offering his hand. “My name’s Hannibal and you are…?”
She took his hand, amusement lighting her eyes. “Fay. How do you do? You looking for somebody?”
“I was hoping to catch up to this young lady.” Hannibal showed her the five-by-seven Huge had given him. “A friend gave me her address. Does she work during the day?”
Fay flashed uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. “Mariah? Naw, she’s the wind, like in the old song, you know? Real party girl.”
Hannibal nodded, making a show of taking Fay’s words seriously. “Party girl, eh? Well, any idea how long she’ll be away? Maybe I should come back next week.”
“If you was smart you wouldn’t come back at all,” Fay said, pulling a cigarette out of a pack of Kools. “She’s hooked up with some guy she met on the beach. But I happen to know she’ll be home in the morning.”
Hannibal let his eyebrows rise in wonder. “Really? Now how would you know that?”
“Cause she asked me to feed and walk her dog.” Fay lit up and took a deep drag. Hannibal waited. “I told her I’d help her out for one day and no more.”
Hannibal pushed his hands into his pockets, pursed his lips and nodded as if lost in thought. “So she met a guy on the beach. Wonder if we’re talking real competition here. Fancy car, big money?”
“Oh yeah,” Fay said. “A player for sure. He flashed, and she went for the cash.”
“Tourist you think?” Hannibal asked, and looked at Fay as if only she could tell. “Not a local fellow?”
“Local boys don’t wear those flashy Hawaiian shirts,” Fay said, blowing smoke into the sky, “and they don’t rent beach houses right on Lake Holly. She told me he’s up there someplace.”
Lake Holly turned out to really be two small lakes, a few blocks apart from each other in the middle of the city. The water lay just inside Pacific Avenue, which was just inside Atlantic, and stretched from about 16th Street down past 6th. Hannibal knew because he had meandered up and down the streets in the area, getting a feel for the locale. He drove with his window down and his shirt completely unbuttoned. Through his sunglasses he saw that condominiums, apartment buildings and single-family homes co-existed peacefully on the shores of the lakes, two blocks from the boardwalk. No one looked like a year-round resident, although most of them had to be.
He turned off his CD player because several variations of beach music seeped into the car from hidden sources, changing each time he turned a corner. Sometimes it seemed as if everyone he saw was dancing to the prevailing beat. Women wore Capri pants or bathing suits, regardless of their age or size. Men dragged their feet when they walked. The sun baked him through his undershirt. On almost every corner the smell of burgers, tacos and chicken reminded him that he had missed lunch. Then he would cross the intersection and forget again.
One house standing proudly behind a white picket fence drew his attention as he drove very slowly past. It was traditional brick with white painted wood, the glassed-in porch presenting a solid, conservative front. A young man was carrying a pony keg toward the door. Three women stood in his way, laughing as they drifted left and right to clear a path. Their two-piece bathing suits were the color of cherry, lemon, and lime.
And there he sat. There on the front steps of that impressive vacation home in a quiet section of the resort area, within easy walking distance of the beach. It was him. It had to be.
Hannibal didn’t turn his head toward the house, but he had a full ten seconds to appraise Rod Mantooth as he rolled past. Hannibal judged him to be about five foot ten, with great broad shoulders and thick, swarthy arms. His short-sleeved shirt hung open. A tangled mass of curly hair burst out from the uncovered space. Thick hairy legs grew from the bottoms of his shorts and ended in broad, spatulate feet.
Stretching his peripheral vision to its limit Hannibal took a mental photograph. The wavy black hair was not quite long enough to touch Rod’s shoulders, but it was striking out in all directions atop a large, square head. Olive skin carried a deep tan. Black marbles were sunk into his craggy face where eyes should have been, but the marbles were flat, dull and lifeless.
Women would say this face had character lines, but Hannibal saw no hint of character in the man’s careless grin. Charles Bronson’s face was creased this way, but Bronson never grinned like that. This was more the old Rod Steiger, or perhaps early Broderick Crawford. Did Broderick ever go by Rod?
And then Hannibal was past the house and he dared not look back for fear of attracting attention. The target had been sighted. Now Hannibal made the subtle shift from being on the hunt to actually stalking his prey. Now the game was changed.
Now the monster had a face.
When Marquita answered the door her eyes pierced Hannibal’s dark lenses and somehow she knew. He could feel it. She nodded hello, opened the door wide and walked back inside. Sarge sat behind a tall glass, on a stool at the breakfast nook that separated the kitchen area from the living room. The glass’ contents were topped with small green leaves.
“Markie was just showing me how to make a proper mint julep,” Sarge said. “Of course you’re supposed to have a silver cup. No idea why. So, how’d things go today? I see you relaxed a little bit.” Hannibal had buttoned his shirt and pulled his coat back on, but left his tie in the car.
Marquita kept her eyes on her own glass, crushing leaves at the bottom with a spoon, releasing the fresh scent of mint into the air. “You saw him, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Him and his whole party family. She’s still part of the gang.” He slid the photograph across the counter. Marquita’s breath caught in her throat.
“Damn you’re good,” Sarge said with the robust energy of a fisherman who feels the big one hit his line. “So now we’re in business right? We waltz over there, rearrange his face a little, find out what he did with whatever he’s got, then make sure he’s in no condition to do this to any more women.”
Marquita grabbed Sarge’s forearm and whispered, “No.”
“Baby,” Sarge began.
“No, Marquita needs you,” Hannibal rushed to say. “And your plan wouldn’t work anyway, if I read the situation right. It looks to me like this guy’s a lifelong player. I think this formula he stole from Anita’s house is his one-time big score. No beating is going to make him give it up.”
“It’d be fun,” Sarge said.