Thought you might want to know that Nikita Petrova didn’t leave behind the fortune most of the Russians assume he had. A quick look at Raisa P’s finances showed that she’s running out of money.
There was no signature, but none was needed.
A horn blaring behind him prompted him to surge forward and catch up with traffic. This news offered a good reason for Raisa to fool herself about a wealthy young suitor asking for her daughter’s hand. He drove home on automatic pilot, pushing this new puzzle piece around with the other bits of information he had gathered.
By the time he got home, he had to admit that he himself should have been the target of much of the rage he was feeling. His anger at Ronzini was based on his own inner belief that people were either good or bad. Bad people doing good things made him almost as uncomfortable as good people going bad.
He parked in his usual place and hurried into his own apartment without encountering another soul. He hung up his jacket, pulled off his tie, and poured Kenyan coffee beans into his grinder. Strong, fresh, hot coffee was Hannibal’s drug of choice for dealing with his emotions. In this case, that meant his anger.
Listening to the whirring gnash of the grinder’s teeth, he also had to admit that part of his anger toward Ivanovich was misplaced. It was not his fault that Hannibal had gotten so deeply involved with this case. Coffee aside, the real drug that Hannibal was hooked on was mystery and although he didn’t expect it, he had stepped into one here. While filling a carafe with water he considered the disturbing fact that, had he known what he now did about the situation, he would have been willing to investigate it anyway. Regardless of his feelings about Ivanovich, he couldn’t ignore the very real danger Viktoriya’s mob-connected mother might be putting her in, especially if Gana was on the run from the law or his country’s legal government.
Aside from the case, Hannibal’s mind was clogged with thoughts about his own isolation. Ivanovich had found it quite simple to create a situation in which Hannibal was not able to discuss the case with any of his closest confidantes. Just as he had to keep an eye on his top priority, keeping Cindy safe, he had to keep his neighbors out of the case to shield them. He trusted Ronzini on the subject of who not to mess with and knew that if Ivanovich had nothing to lose he would be a danger to all those around him.
But in the meantime, Hannibal couldn’t think of anything else he could do to finish his assignment. Like most days, when the work was done, Hannibal changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Hours passed in solitude, filled by frozen egg rolls and a marathon of television episodes. Cindy had given him a DVD of the short-lived Blade television series. He had enjoyed it more than he had expected to, and couldn’t wait to tell Cindy. He tried hard not to notice that she hadn’t called him to talk about her day or the house she looked at. She was probably working late again, as lawyers so often do.
When the phone did ring, Hannibal checked his watch before answering. She really had worked late.
“Hello,” he said, eager to hear her voice again, even if he had to tell her he couldn’t talk.
“Come over for a drink.” It was Ivanovich’s hard, accented voice. The anger Hannibal had put away earlier in the day popped out of its box.
“Bitch, I’m done working for the day. I’ll get more answers tomorrow.”
Pause. “I thought a bitch was a woman only. Come over for a drink.” This time Hannibal noticed a slight slurring. He must have started drinking alone.
“Look, Alex, it’s after eleven. I need my sleep.”
“Aleksandr,” Ivanovich said. “Never Xander. Never Lex. Never Al. Never Alex. You are not asleep. You are alone. Like me. Come over for a drink.”
Hannibal thought about his own isolation, and about the fact that Ivanovich had not left that office for more than forty-eight hours and in that time had seen no one except Hannibal and, he assumed, a delivery boy from the liquor store. Well, he did it to himself, Hannibal thought. Screw him. He was about to say it aloud when Ivanovich appeared to remember something from their very first conversation.
“Please.”
When Hannibal walked into his office, he bypassed the wall switch for the ceiling light. His desk lamp shed the only light in the room. Ivanovich seemed more at home in the relative gloom. He was still in Hannibal’s desk chair. His pistol still lay on the desk pointed toward the door. The black photo album still lay open in front of him. But Ivanovich had changed into a t-shirt, one of those you see so often in Washington gift shops, that said “You Don’t Know Me,” and in smaller lettering, “Witness Protection Program.” He held a tumbler of clear liquid in his right hand. He put it down to pour vodka into a similar glass on the desk.
“So, you can call a man a bitch?”
“Anything can be a bitch,” Hannibal said, picking up his glass. “A man you don’t like. A woman you do like. An object like, oh, I don’t know. You poured some nasty vodka into this bitch and I picked it up. Hell, life’s a bitch.” He took a swallow from his glass, finding the drink surprisingly smooth but just as fiery as he expected.
“So sit,” Ivanovich said, reaching behind his head to start another Nine Inch Nails CD. “Tell me of your progress, Mister Detective.”
Hannibal dropped into his visitor’s chair as the warmth from the drink spread through his body. He noticed that his office smelled just a bit like fried food, and the cartons in his trashcan confirmed the reason. Did this guy live on Chinese takeout?
“The way I see it, you gave me four jobs,” Hannibal said. “I’ve got a banker who confirms in writing that Gana is who he says he is. I got an expert to help me test him for background knowledge and I’m convinced he’s from where he says he’s from. In conversation with him and the Petrovas, it became pretty clear that he’s primarily here for the girl.”
“Viktoriya,” Ivanovich said, raising his glass and emptying it, almost as if he was toasting the woman’s name.
“Yes. That leaves the money. Normally, Ms. Santiago could help me with that part, but I have another friend with connections who will be able to tell me in a day or two where Gana got his money. That’s all you need to know, right? Then you disappear from my life-and Cindy’s.”
“You miss her, don’t you?” Ivanovich asked, signaling to Hannibal to return his glass. When Hannibal didn’t answer he said, “Yes, that is the deal.”
“You want details?” Hannibal asked, setting his glass back on the desk.
“Please,” Ivanovich said, refilling the glass. “As much detail as possible. I want to know everything you’ve learned about this man Gana, and how you came to these conclusions.”
While listening to heavy industrial rock and sharing three more rounds of drinks, Hannibal recounted his day, omitting his detour to see Cindy. Ivanovich was not pleased but he was satisfied, which meant that once Ronzini put Hannibal on the money trail he would be free. He didn’t say so, but with Ivanovich gone he would also feel free to pursue the real mysteries raised by his investigation without worrying about Cindy. God, he missed her. More than this Russian killer could know. What could a murderer for hire know about human feelings anyway?
“You are thinking too hard,” Ivanovich said. “What is on your mind? Your woman? She is safe.”
Hannibal stared at his glass instead of his client. “Actually, I was thinking about you. I know who Dani Gana is now. I know who Viktoriya Petrova is. Just who the fuck is Aleksandr Ivanovich?”
10
Ivanovich stood up, maybe just to stretch his legs, maybe to see himself more clearly. Hannibal watched him, trying to center his mind. He knew that the casual profanity was a sign that the alcohol was loosening him. He seldom drank and for that reason his tolerance for liquor was low.