“Of course,” Ivanovich said, smiling. “I would have. In a way, I would have been disappointed if you didn’t try. But now, how can I trust you? And if all you say is true, then maybe my efforts here have no purpose. In which case, you no longer serve any purpose for me.”
Hannibal clenched his teeth, prepared to pay the price for his gamble. Watching Ivanovich’s finger tighten on the trigger, Hannibal regretted that there was no one else to protect Cindy.
11
The knock at the door made Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat. Ray’s voice tripled his pulse rate.
“Hey, Hannibal. You in there, Paco?”
Ivanovich moved the pistol’s barrel two degrees to the left. Now the bullet would brush past Hannibal and poke a tiny hole in the office door and Ray Santiago’s chest. A quick follow-up shot could still take Hannibal down before he had time to move. He couldn’t stop the Russian from killing them both, but he had to try. Ray didn’t deserve to die. He was an innocent in this case.
“One of the sheep,” Hannibal said under his breath. Ivanovich heard and shifted his focus from the wooden door back to Hannibal’s face.
“Come on, man,” Ray said. “I wanted to let you know. That guy you’re investigating? He ain’t for real.”
Ivanovich looked at Hannibal with an open-mouthed half smile. Hannibal interpreted the expression as a look of relief. Relief to hear he might be proven right, and maybe relief at having a good reason not to kill Ray. Keeping his gun on Hannibal, he went to the next room and pulled the pocket doors together, leaving just enough of a gap to see through. Or shoot through.
Hannibal released his breath, feeling some relief himself. He knew that Ivanovich shared his curiosity and would not kill anyone now. He wanted to know what Ray had to say. Hannibal unlocked the door and Ray started in past him, but stopped as he recognized the look on Hannibal’s face.
“Hey, Paco.” Ray grasped Hannibal’s shoulders. “You’re not looking too good. And whew, what is that? You been in there drinking alone all night?”
“Not yet,” Hannibal said. “And the smell is so strong because I dropped a glass and spilled a while ago. But never mind that. What did you mean about Dani Gana not being for real?”
“He ain’t,” Ray said. He brushed past Hannibal to drop heavily into the chair Hannibal had vacated a few seconds earlier. “You remember you said he needed a driver for a couple days? Well, I called him and set it up. Thanks, by the way, for the lead. Bachir says he’s one hell of a tipper.”
“Bachir?” Hannibal asked, still standing in the doorway.
“Yeah. He’s Algerian. I figured your man would like having a driver from the same country, you know?”
“Makes sense.”
“Right, only Bachir says he ain’t. While they were driving today he started talking to him in that crazy stuff they speak.”
“Arabic,” Hannibal said. “You saying Gana don’t speak Arabic?”
Ray pulled a thin cigar out of his pocket. “No, Bachir says he speaks it fine. Just got the wrong accent. Now, Bachir says they speak the same language in all the Arab countries, but it’s all different. You know, like guys from Texas speak English, but they don’t sound like guys from here.”
“So your man says Gana isn’t Algerian.”
“Says this guy’s probably never been in Algeria,” Ray said, pulling out an ancient Zippo lighter and puffing his cigar into life.
“OK, then where’s he from?”
“He don’t know,” Ray said. “Says there are like twenty other countries he might be from. Bachir just says that for sure he ain’t Algerian. Say, you going to offer me some of that?” Ray hooked his thumb toward the half-empty second bottle of vodka.
“Why don’t you grab it and let’s go,” Hannibal said, taking one step into the hallway. I was about to turn in anyway. You can take the bottle on up to your room and finish it. I really don’t need to drink any more.”
“Yeah,” Ray said, standing and grabbing the bottle by its neck. “I can see that for sure.”
12
Morning brought shifting clouds and the first truly cool breeze of the season. Driving into the city of Fairfax, Virginia, Hannibal’s thoughts were also gray and shifting. If Ray’s driver was right, Gana wasn’t really a native Algerian but he very much wanted people to believe he was. He must have been a world-class confidence man to have done the kind of deep background research necessary to answer Hannibal’s questions. In Hannibal’s experience, the only people who knew their legends that well were in the espionage business. If his enemies were actually hunting a spy, Viktoriya might really be in danger just standing too close to him.
But Hannibal’s houseguest was much more confounding. Was he capable of killing the father of the woman he loved? Hannibal wasn’t sure, so he decided to take him up on his suggestion and talk to the police.
A quick Internet search brought up old newspaper reports and gave him the few sketchy facts made public about Nikita Petrova’s death. One of those facts was the name of the primary investigating detective and that fact made Hannibal smile. He knew that name.
He parked in the large lot attached to the county building complex because an earlier call had told him that the man he needed to talk to was testifying in court that morning. He loaded his cell phone, loose change, and automatic into his glove compartment. He wouldn’t need them, and he wanted to avoid as much drama as possible at the metal detectors.
Once inside, he sat at the back of a courtroom, waiting for the detective’s turn to testify. He did so in concise terms, with the kind of fanatic accuracy that makes it almost impossible for opposing council to reinterpret the facts. When he was finished, he nodded to the judge and left the stand with little fanfare. At the same time, Hannibal left his seat for the nearest exit.
He was beside the door for less than a minute before saw the detective approaching him. As usual, he wore a tan suit and a bulldog’s expression. His straw-colored hair was still cut in a severe, military style, and his blue eyes still spoke of how dangerous he could be. He stopped in front of Hannibal, his hands going to his hips.
“Well, if it isn’t Hannibal Jones, defender of the innocent.”
“Orson Rissik,” Hannibal said with a smile. “Prosecutor of the guilty. I see you’re still bringing them in and locking them up.”
“That’s what they pay me to do,” Rissik said. “But what brings you to the courthouse today? One of your clients in trouble?”
“Actually, I’m here to see you,” Hannibal said. “Can I buy you lunch?”
Rissik shrugged. “Sure. I’ve got a pretty short break and I was about to walk down the hill to get a sandwich. Come on.”
The two men crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk. Hannibal didn’t usually like to work with the police because so many of them had their own agenda. Orson Rissik had only one agenda that Hannibal knew of. He wanted to put criminals in jail.
“So, you said you were looking for me but you didn’t say why.”
“I wanted to get some information related to a case I’m working on right now,” Hannibal said. “I need details on the Petrova murder.”
“That was three or four years ago,” Rissik said, his brows pulling together. “A real tragedy. He left a wife and daughter, I think.”
“That’s the one. I’m just trying to find out if it was officially declared a murder.”
“That was three years ago,” Rissik said. “You expect me to have the details of the case off the top of my head?”
“I know you, Orson,” Hannibal said. “There’s a reason you made chief of detectives. You never let go of the important stuff, because you know that a lot of times these cases circle back on you.”
Rissik nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “Okay, that case sticks in my mind for a couple reasons. At first, I wasn’t even sure it was him. The ID was kind of difficult.”