“I can imagine. I hear he did a face plant off a roof.”
Rissik stopped to pull the restaurant door open. “The roof of a six-story office building. Splat. Like a bag of beef stew.”
Hannibal shuddered. “Colorful metaphor, Chief. Hey, is this where you want to eat? I thought we’d go to a restaurant.”
“Subway is a restaurant,” Rissik said. “It’s close and quick. And like I said, you can buy me a sandwich.” Turning away from Hannibal, he ordered roast beef and mayo on whole wheat. The counter girl was making it before he spoke. Hannibal figured he ate the same thing every time he walked in, which must have been often.
“OK, so he was hard to identify. How’d you know it was him?” Hannibal glanced at the menu and ordered the lunch special without really noticing what it was.
“His wallet was lying on the roof, next to a Tag Heuer Kirium Quartz that his wife identified as his.” They sat in a booth and both men glanced at the Porsche titanium watch on Hannibal’s wrist that was a Christmas gift from Cindy and at the more modest Esquire watch Rissik wore that was surely a present from his wife. Hannibal was the only one who was a little embarrassed.
“Leaving things like a watch and wallet behind is typical of suicides, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” Rissik said. “Or of a killer wanting to make his work look like a suicide.”
“So you traced him from ID in his wallet, and his wife ID’d the body,” Hannibal said, unwrapping his lunch. He thought it would be an extraordinary killer indeed who would leave a two-thousand-dollar watch behind.
“Right. His clothes and other effects allowed her to be pretty darned sure it was her husband. Besides, she said he had been threatening suicide for a while.”
“Really?” Hannibal took the first bite of his sandwich. He savored the flavor of the variety of meats and cheeses that together formed the taste he associated with “sub sandwich.” As soon as his mouth was empty, he asked, “Was he depressed? I thought his life was pretty good.”
“She said he was worried about all the debt he was in,” Rissik said, almost finished with his food. “And I guess he had some war injuries that bothered him.”
“So he talked about suicide, prepared like a suicide, and you haven’t mentioned any real evidence of foul play. Why a murder investigation?”
“You know how these things work, Jones,” Rissik said. He finished his food, folded the paper into a neat bundle, and shoved it into the bag. “If we rule suicide right away, that stops the investigation. And I’m sure you know that he had mob connections. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You think maybe he owed money to some gangster who had him taken out?”
Rissik raised a finger, signaling caution. “Now don’t put words in my mouth. There was absolutely no evidence of foul play in that death. And believe me, I looked. Of course, Raisa insisted that she had no idea who was holding the marker on this big debt she kept hearing about. But who knows. If I wasn’t a cop, maybe she’d have told me more. If I wasn’t a cop, I’d sure ask her.”
“Subtle, Chief, real subtle. But you know, I might just take the hint.”
The people who live in Fairfax County, Virginia, think they deal with hateful traffic. Because he did most of his driving in the District, Hannibal knew better. The highway out of Fairfax, I-66, was well populated, but at least traffic was moving. It wasn’t until he hit the Key Bridge that driving turned to crawling. The last couple of miles were horrific, thanks to some very narrow streets that people still parked on. He had to fight his way through the rabbit’s warren of Georgetown to reach Mrs. Petrova’s house. He hoped that when he got there she would give him some of the answers he needed.
Navigating this way through a side street, Hannibal again spotted the brown Saturn. He figured Cochran must be on the job, spying on Gana just a couple of blocks away. Maybe he was on the side of the good guys after all. He was certainly dedicated if he was leaving his car on a Washington side street again and again.
“Parked in the exact same place,” Hannibal muttered to himself. “What are the odds?”
Then he thought about his own words. What were the odds? It seemed more likely that the car had not moved since the day before. Why would Cochran leave his car there?
Curiosity made Hannibal pull over and park in the nearest spot, almost a block away. As he walked toward Cochran’s car, a vague sense of unease grew inside him, matching the dark clouds above. When he reached the car, his feelings seemed to be confirmed. It was parked a couple of feet too close to the fire hydrant. Tickets slipped under the windshield wiper indicated that the car had been in the same place since the morning before. Hannibal tugged on the door handle and was surprised when it opened. No one would leave a car illegally parked for so long, not on purpose, and certainly not unlocked. Maybe something had happened to the snoop, something more than having his camera smashed.
Hannibal went back to his car. He still didn’t know who Cochran was, but he had his doubts that the man could be in the employ of Muslim terrorists. And if Gana was lying about that, then Cochran’s story might be true. He could be an inept private eye, in over his head. And that meant that he might actually know something useful. He might also be in serious danger, or even lying somewhere hurt.
But before searching the hospitals and morgues, Hannibal figured he’d see if Cochran was just nursing a minor injury in his hotel room. And since Cochran had commented that he was “stuck in the Ramada,” Hannibal figured he wouldn’t be too hard to find. He turned out to be registered at the second hotel Hannibal called, just outside the District in Silver Spring, Maryland.
Whatever information Raisa Petrova was holding, it would keep. Right then Hannibal thought that finding Ben Cochran might tell him more about Gana. He took the short drive up Georgia Avenue to the chosen Ramada Inn. A bored desk clerk with a serious acne problem gave him the room number. He knocked on the door, then stepped back to make sure he was visible through the little peephole. Feet tapped to the door on the other side, followed by a few seconds of silence. He heard the deadbolt turn, and the door opened in. He was surprised to find himself facing a buxom redhead.
“What can I do for you, handsome?”
13
“I’m sorry,” Hannibal said. “I was looking for Ben Cochran.”
“And you got his wife instead,” she replied, presenting her hand.
“Hannibal Jones,” he said, taking her hand. She shook firmly, like a man, and looked him in the eye as she did.
“You can call me Queenie. Come on in. How do you know Ben?”
The woman’s red hair went down to the roots, but it was up in the big-hair style that Hannibal hoped would some day go out of style even in the Deep South. Walking behind her, he could not help but notice her figure. The woman was heavy-chested and broad-hipped, but everything was in the right proportions. Her American flag t-shirt and jeans were just a tiny bit too tight, but that only accented her shape, which Hannibal would have described as robust. He thought that perhaps this was what happened to a woman if she quit pole-dancing cold turkey.
“I bumped into Ben because we were watching the same guy.”
“You’re shitting me,” Queenie said, slapping a pack of Camels against her index finger to make one of the cigarettes pop out. She captured it with her lips and slid it free of the pack.
“Nope. Same mark,” Hannibal said. “I was kind of hoping to put our heads together on this. You know, team up.”
“Well as you can see, Benny ain’t here.” Queenie never looked toward Hannibal for a light, just pulled out a pack of matches and lit her own cigarette.
“Maybe you can help. I just want to know why he’d want pictures of the man.”
“He’s just got this crazy idea he can blackmail Gana with some pictures,” she said, putting one red high heel up on the chair she was standing beside. “Like, do what I say or I’ll let the whole gang know where you are.”